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"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."	Mr. Herriton	I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said	English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall	unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t	lap. It was part of the idiot s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece. "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t you answer?" "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. "What s that?" "Hush--" "Whatever is that?" "Hush--sleeping." Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. She would not let him	has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this." There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind. "Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty." A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the idiot s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece. "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t you answer?" "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. "What s that?" "Hush--" "Whatever is that?" "Hush--sleeping." Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful interview--an interview between the South pole and the North. It was quite easy to conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing. "Poor Gino," he thought. "He s no greater than I am, after all." Then he thought of Miss	the lady give you this note?" he cried. The man was unintelligible. "Speak up!" exclaimed Philip. "Who gave it you--and where?" Nothing but horrible sighings and bubblings came out of the man. "Be patient with him," said the driver, turning round on the box. "It is the poor idiot." And the landlady came out of the hotel and echoed "The poor idiot. He cannot speak. He takes messages for us all." Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald, with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose. In another country he would have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and part of Nature s scheme. "Ugh!" shuddered the Englishman. "Signora padrona, find out from him; this note is from my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her?" "It is no good," said the landlady. "He understands everything but he can explain nothing." "He has visions of the saints," said the man who drove the cab. "But my sister--where has she gone? How has she met him?" "She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the English. "She has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this." There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind. "Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty." A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the idiot s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece. "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t you answer?" "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. "What s that?" "Hush--" "Whatever is that?" "Hush--sleeping." Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful interview--an interview between the South pole and the North. It was quite easy to conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing. "Poor Gino," he thought. "He s no greater than I am, after all." Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending the darkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusation failed. She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feel it again when she knew this day s sombre and unexpected close. "You have been pretty secret," he said; "you might tell me a little now. What do we pay for him? All we ve got?" "Hush!" answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like some bony prophetess--Judith, or Deborah, or Jael. He had last seen the baby sprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty miles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. And that remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and the poor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the expectation of sorrow to come. Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but the occasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp illumined as they passed it. They travelled quickly, for this driver did not care how fast he went to the station, and would dash down each incline and scuttle perilously round the curves. "Look here, Harriet," he said	his hand. "You sound despondent," he said, laughing. "Don t forget that you return victorious." "I suppose I do," she replied, more despondently than ever, and got into the carriage. He concluded that she was thinking of her reception at Sawston, whither her fame would doubtless precede her. Whatever would Mrs. Herriton do? She could make things quite unpleasant when she thought it right. She might think it right to be silent, but then there was Harriet. Who would bridle Harriet s tongue? Between the two of them Miss Abbott was bound to have a bad time. Her reputation, both for consistency and for moral enthusiasm, would be lost for ever. "It s hard luck on her," he thought. "She is a good person. I must do for her anything I can." Their intimacy had been very rapid, but he too hoped that it would not shift. He believed that he understood her, and that she, by now, had seen the worst of him. What if after a long time--if after all--he flushed like a boy as he looked after her carriage. He went into the dining-room to look for Harriet. Harriet was not to be found. Her bedroom, too, was empty. All that was left of her was the purple prayer-book which lay open on the bed. Philip took it up aimlessly, and saw--"Blessed be the Lord my God who teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight." He put the book in his pocket, and began to brood over more profitable themes. Santa Deodata gave out half past eight. All the luggage was on, and still Harriet had not appeared. "Depend upon it," said the landlady, "she has gone to Signor Carella s to say good-bye to her little nephew." Philip did not think it likely. They shouted all over the house and still there was no Harriet. He began to be uneasy. He was helpless without Miss Abbott; her grave, kind face had cheered him wonderfully, even when it looked displeased. Monteriano was sad without her; the rain was thickening; the scraps of Donizetti floated tunelessly out of the wineshops, and of the great tower opposite he could only see the base, fresh papered with the advertisements of quacks. A man came up the street with a note. Philip read, "Start at once. Pick me up outside the gate. Pay the bearer. H. H." "Did the lady give you this note?" he cried. The man was unintelligible. "Speak up!" exclaimed Philip. "Who gave it you--and where?" Nothing but horrible sighings and bubblings came out of the man. "Be patient with him," said the driver, turning round on the box. "It is the poor idiot." And the landlady came out of the hotel and echoed "The poor idiot. He cannot speak. He takes messages for us all." Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald, with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose. In another country he would have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and part of Nature s scheme. "Ugh!" shuddered the Englishman. "Signora padrona, find out from him; this note is from my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her?" "It is no good," said the landlady. "He understands everything but he can explain nothing." "He has visions of the saints," said the man who drove the cab. "But my sister--where has she gone? How has she met him?" "She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the English. "She has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this." There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind. "Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty." A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the idiot s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece. "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t you answer?" "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. "What s that?" "Hush--" "Whatever is that?" "Hush--sleeping." Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful interview--an interview between the South pole and the North. It was quite easy to conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing. "Poor Gino," he thought. "He s no greater than I am, after all." Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending the darkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusation failed. She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feel it again when she knew this day s sombre and unexpected close. "You have been pretty secret," he said; "you might tell me a little now. What do we pay for him? All we ve got?" "Hush!" answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like some bony prophetess--Judith, or Deborah, or Jael. He had last seen the baby sprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty miles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. And that remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and the poor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the expectation of sorrow to come. Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but the occasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp illumined as they passed it. They travelled quickly, for this driver did not care how fast he went to the station, and would dash down each incline and scuttle perilously round the curves. "Look here, Harriet," he said at last, "I feel bad; I want to see the baby." "Hush!" "I don t mind if I do wake him up. I want to see him. I ve as much right in him as you." Harriet gave in. But it was too dark for him to see the child s face. "Wait a minute," he whispered, and before she could stop him he had lit a match under the shelter of her umbrella. "But he s awake!" he exclaimed. The match went out. "Good ickle quiet boysey, then." Philip winced. "His face, do you know, struck me as all wrong." "All wrong?" "All puckered queerly." "Of course--with the shadows--you couldn t see him." "Well, hold him up again." She did so. He lit another match. It went out quickly, but not before he had seen that the baby was crying. "Nonsense," said Harriet sharply. "We should hear him if he cried." "No, he s crying hard; I thought so before, and I m certain now." Harriet touched the child s face. It was bathed in tears. "Oh, the night air, I suppose," she said, "or perhaps the wet of the rain." "I say, you haven t hurt it, or held it the wrong way, or anything; it is too uncanny--crying and no noise. Why didn t you get Perfetta to carry it to the hotel instead of muddling with the messenger? It s a marvel he understood about the note." "Oh, he understands." And he could feel her shudder. "He tried to carry the baby--" "But why not Gino or Perfetta?" "Philip, don t talk. Must I say it again? Don t talk. The baby wants to sleep." She crooned harshly as they descended, and now and then she wiped up the tears which welled inexhaustibly from the little eyes. Philip looked away, winking at times himself. It was as if they were travelling with the whole world s sorrow, as if all the mystery, all the persistency of woe were gathered to a single fount. The roads were now coated with mud, and the carriage went more quietly but not less swiftly, sliding by long zigzags into the night. He knew the landmarks pretty well: here was the crossroad to Poggibonsi; and the last view of Monteriano, if they had light, would be from here. Soon they ought to come to that little wood where violets were so	and echoed "The poor idiot. He cannot speak. He takes messages for us all." Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald, with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose. In another country he would have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and part of Nature s scheme. "Ugh!" shuddered the Englishman. "Signora padrona, find out from him; this note is from my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her?" "It is no good," said the landlady. "He understands everything but he can explain nothing." "He has visions of the saints," said the man who drove the cab. "But my sister--where has she gone? How has she met him?" "She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the English. "She has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this." There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind. "Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty." A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the idiot s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece. "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t you answer?" "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. "What s that?" "Hush--" "Whatever is that?" "Hush--sleeping." Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful interview--an interview between the South pole and the North. It was quite easy to conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing. "Poor Gino," he thought. "He s no greater than I am, after all." Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending the darkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusation failed. She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feel it again when she knew this day s sombre and unexpected close. "You have been pretty secret," he said; "you might tell me a little now. What do we pay for him? All we ve got?" "Hush!" answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like some bony prophetess--Judith, or Deborah, or Jael. He had last seen the baby sprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty miles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. And that remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and the poor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the expectation of sorrow to come. Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but the occasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp	Where Angels Fear To Tread
"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."	Mrs. Adeline Archer	a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued:	made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain	brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added	"I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he brought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I was there when they came. If the van der	cousin Henry?" "The fact that they can be offended by such a trifle as Countess Olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common." "Consider--!" "Well, who is; but who has good music, and amuses people on Sunday evenings, when the whole of New York is dying of inanition." "Good music? All I know is, there was a woman who got up on a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in Paris. There was smoking and champagne." "Well--that kind of thing happens in other places, and the world still goes on." "I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he brought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I was there when they came. If the van der Luydens want to quarrel with anybody, the real culprit is under their own roof." "Quarrel? Newland, did you ever know of cousin Henry's quarrelling? Besides, the Duke's his guest; and a stranger too. Strangers don't discriminate: how should they? Countess Olenska is a New Yorker, and should have respected the feelings of New York." "Well, then, if they must have a victim, you have my leave to throw Madame Olenska to them," cried her son, exasperated. "I don't see myself--or you either--offering ourselves up to expiate her crimes." "Oh, of course you see only the Mingott side," his mother answered,	being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey--I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement sooner so that we might all back her up; and if it hadn't been for that cousin Louisa would never have invited her to the dinner for the Duke." "Well--what harm was there in inviting her? She was the best-looking woman in the room; she made the dinner a little less funereal than the usual van der Luyden banquet." "You know cousin Henry asked her to please you: he persuaded cousin Louisa. And now they're so upset that they're going back to Skuytercliff tomorrow. I think, Newland, you'd better come down. You don't seem to understand how mother feels." In the drawing-room Newland found his mother. She raised a troubled brow from her needlework to ask: "Has Janey told you?" "Yes." He tried to keep his tone as measured as her own. "But I can't take it very seriously." "Not the fact of having offended cousin Louisa and cousin Henry?" "The fact that they can be offended by such a trifle as Countess Olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common." "Consider--!" "Well, who is; but who has good music, and amuses people on Sunday evenings, when the whole of New York is dying of inanition." "Good music? All I know is, there was a woman who got up on a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in Paris. There was smoking and champagne." "Well--that kind of thing happens in other places, and the world still goes on." "I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he brought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I was there when they came. If the van der Luydens want to quarrel with anybody, the real culprit is under their own roof." "Quarrel? Newland, did you ever know of cousin Henry's quarrelling? Besides, the Duke's his guest; and a stranger too. Strangers don't discriminate: how should they? Countess Olenska is a New Yorker, and should have respected the feelings of New York." "Well, then, if they must have a victim, you have my leave to throw Madame Olenska to them," cried her son, exasperated. "I don't see myself--or you either--offering ourselves up to expiate her crimes." "Oh, of course you see only the Mingott side," his mother answered, in the sensitive tone that was her nearest approach to anger. The sad butler drew back the drawing-room portieres and announced: "Mr. Henry van der Luyden." Mrs. Archer dropped her needle and pushed her chair back with an agitated hand. "Another lamp," she cried to the retreating servant, while Janey bent over to straighten her mother's cap. Mr. van der Luyden's figure loomed on the threshold, and Newland Archer went forward to greet his cousin. "We were just talking about you, sir," he said. Mr. van der Luyden seemed overwhelmed by the announcement. He drew off his glove to shake hands with the ladies, and smoothed his tall hat shyly, while Janey pushed an arm-chair forward, and Archer continued: "And the Countess Olenska." Mrs. Archer paled. "Ah--a charming woman. I have just been to see her," said Mr. van der Luyden, complacency restored to his brow. He sank into the chair, laid his hat and gloves on the floor beside him in the old-fashioned way, and went on: "She has a real gift for arranging flowers. I had sent her a few carnations from Skuytercliff, and I was astonished. Instead of massing them in big bunches as our head-gardener does,	Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed: "What learned things you read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him. "Mother's very angry." "Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. She brought word that her brother would come in after dinner: she couldn't say very much, because he forbade her to: he wishes to give all the details himself. He's with cousin Louisa van der Luyden now." "For heaven's sake, my dear girl, try a fresh start. It would take an omniscient Deity to know what you're talking about." "It's not a time to be profane, Newland.... Mother feels badly enough about your not going to church ..." With a groan he plunged back into his book. "NEWLAND! Do listen. Your friend Madame Olenska was at Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's party last night: she went there with the Duke and Mr. Beaufort." At the last clause of this announcement a senseless anger swelled the young man's breast. To smother it he laughed. "Well, what of it? I knew she meant to." Janey paled and her eyes began to project. "You knew she meant to--and you didn't try to stop her? To warn her?" "Stop her? Warn her?" He laughed again. "I'm not engaged to be married to the Countess Olenska!" The words had a fantastic sound in his own ears. "You're marrying into her family." "Oh, family--family!" he jeered. "Newland--don't you care about Family?" "Not a brass farthing." "Nor about what cousin Louisa van der Luyden will think?" "Not the half of one--if she thinks such old maid's rubbish." "Mother is not an old maid," said his virgin sister with pinched lips. He felt like shouting back: "Yes, she is, and so are the van der Luydens, and so we all are, when it comes to being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey--I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement sooner so that we might all back her up; and if it hadn't been for that cousin Louisa would never have invited her to the dinner for the Duke." "Well--what harm was there in inviting her? She was the best-looking woman in the room; she made the dinner a little less funereal than the usual van der Luyden banquet." "You know cousin Henry asked her to please you: he persuaded cousin Louisa. And now they're so upset that they're going back to Skuytercliff tomorrow. I think, Newland, you'd better come down. You don't seem to understand how mother feels." In the drawing-room Newland found his mother. She raised a troubled brow from her needlework to ask: "Has Janey told you?" "Yes." He tried to keep his tone as measured as her own. "But I can't take it very seriously." "Not the fact of having offended cousin Louisa and cousin Henry?" "The fact that they can be offended by such a trifle as Countess Olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common." "Consider--!" "Well, who is; but who has good music, and amuses people on Sunday evenings, when the whole of New York is dying of inanition." "Good music? All I know is, there was a woman who got up on a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in Paris. There was smoking and champagne." "Well--that kind of thing happens in other places, and the world still goes on." "I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he brought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I was there when they came. If the van der Luydens want to quarrel with anybody, the real culprit is under their own roof." "Quarrel? Newland, did you ever know of cousin Henry's quarrelling? Besides, the Duke's his guest; and a stranger too. Strangers don't discriminate: how should they? Countess Olenska is a New Yorker, and should have respected the feelings of New York." "Well, then, if they must have a victim, you have my leave to throw Madame Olenska to them," cried her son, exasperated. "I don't see myself--or you either--offering ourselves up to expiate her crimes." "Oh, of course you see only the Mingott side," his mother answered, in the sensitive tone that was her nearest approach to anger. The sad butler drew back the drawing-room portieres and announced: "Mr. Henry van der Luyden." Mrs. Archer dropped her needle and pushed her chair back with an agitated hand. "Another lamp," she cried to the retreating servant, while Janey bent over to straighten her mother's cap. Mr. van der Luyden's figure loomed on the threshold, and Newland Archer went forward to greet his cousin. "We were just talking about you, sir," he said. Mr. van der Luyden seemed overwhelmed by the announcement. He drew off his glove to shake hands with the ladies, and smoothed his tall hat shyly, while Janey pushed an arm-chair forward, and Archer continued: "And the Countess Olenska." Mrs. Archer paled. "Ah--a charming woman. I have just been to see her," said Mr. van der Luyden, complacency restored to his brow. He sank into the chair, laid his hat and gloves on the floor beside him in the old-fashioned way, and went on: "She has a real gift for arranging flowers. I had sent her a few carnations from Skuytercliff, and I was astonished. Instead of massing them in big bunches as our head-gardener does, she had scattered them about loosely, here and there ... I can't say how. The Duke had told me: he said: 'Go and see how cleverly she's arranged her drawing-room.' And she has. I should really like to take Louisa to see her, if the neighbourhood were not so--unpleasant." A dead silence greeted this unusual flow of words from Mr. van der Luyden. Mrs. Archer drew her embroidery out of the basket into which she had nervously tumbled it, and Newland, leaning against the chimney-place and twisting a humming-bird-feather screen in his hand, saw Janey's gaping countenance lit up by the coming of the second lamp. "The fact is," Mr. van der Luyden continued, stroking his long grey leg with a bloodless hand weighed down by the Patroon's great signet-ring, "the fact is, I dropped in to thank her for the very pretty note she wrote me about my flowers; and also--but this is between ourselves, of course--to give her a friendly warning about allowing the Duke to carry her off to parties with him. I don't know if you've heard--" Mrs. Archer produced an indulgent smile. "Has the Duke been carrying her off to parties?" "You know what these English grandees are. They're all alike. Louisa and I are very fond of our cousin--but it's hopeless to expect people who are accustomed to the European courts to trouble themselves about our little republican distinctions. The Duke goes where he's amused." Mr. van der Luyden paused, but no one spoke. "Yes--it seems he took her with him last night to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's. Sillerton Jackson has just been to us with the foolish story, and Louisa was rather troubled. So I thought the shortest way was to go straight to Countess Olenska and explain--by the merest hint, you know--how we feel in New York about certain things. I felt I might, without indelicacy, because the evening she dined with us she rather suggested ... rather let me see that she would be grateful for guidance. And she WAS." Mr. van der Luyden looked about the room with what would have been self-satisfaction on features less purged of the vulgar passions. On his face it became a mild benevolence which Mrs. Archer's countenance dutifully reflected. "How kind you both are, dear Henry--always! Newland will particularly appreciate what you have done because of dear May and his new relations." She shot an	To warn her?" "Stop her? Warn her?" He laughed again. "I'm not engaged to be married to the Countess Olenska!" The words had a fantastic sound in his own ears. "You're marrying into her family." "Oh, family--family!" he jeered. "Newland--don't you care about Family?" "Not a brass farthing." "Nor about what cousin Louisa van der Luyden will think?" "Not the half of one--if she thinks such old maid's rubbish." "Mother is not an old maid," said his virgin sister with pinched lips. He felt like shouting back: "Yes, she is, and so are the van der Luydens, and so we all are, when it comes to being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey--I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement sooner so that we might all back her up; and if it hadn't been for that cousin Louisa would never have invited her to the dinner for the Duke." "Well--what harm was there in inviting her? She was the best-looking woman in the room; she made the dinner a little less funereal than the usual van der Luyden banquet." "You know cousin Henry asked her to please you: he persuaded cousin Louisa. And now they're so upset that they're going back to Skuytercliff tomorrow. I think, Newland, you'd better come down. You don't seem to understand how mother feels." In the drawing-room Newland found his mother. She raised a troubled brow from her needlework to ask: "Has Janey told you?" "Yes." He tried to keep his tone as measured as her own. "But I can't take it very seriously." "Not the fact of having offended cousin Louisa and cousin Henry?" "The fact that they can be offended by such a trifle as Countess Olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common." "Consider--!" "Well, who is; but who has good music, and amuses people on Sunday evenings, when the whole of New York is dying of inanition." "Good music? All I know is, there was a woman who got up on a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in Paris. There was smoking and champagne." "Well--that kind of thing happens in other places, and the world still goes on." "I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he brought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I was there when they came. If the van der Luydens want to quarrel with anybody, the real culprit is under their own roof." "Quarrel? Newland, did you ever know of cousin Henry's quarrelling? Besides, the Duke's his guest; and a stranger too. Strangers don't discriminate: how should they? Countess Olenska is a New Yorker, and should have respected the feelings of New York." "Well, then, if they must have a victim, you have my leave to throw Madame Olenska to them," cried her son, exasperated. "I don't see myself--or you either--offering ourselves up to expiate her crimes." "Oh, of course you see only the Mingott side," his mother answered, in the sensitive tone that was her nearest approach to anger. The sad butler drew back the drawing-room portieres and announced: "Mr. Henry van der Luyden." Mrs. Archer dropped her needle and pushed her chair back with an agitated hand. "Another lamp," she cried to the retreating servant, while Janey bent over to straighten her mother's cap. Mr. van der Luyden's figure loomed on the threshold, and Newland Archer went forward to greet his cousin. "We were just talking about you, sir," he said. Mr. van der Luyden seemed overwhelmed by the announcement. He drew off his glove to shake hands with the ladies, and smoothed his tall hat shyly, while Janey pushed an arm-chair forward, and Archer continued: "And the Countess Olenska." Mrs. Archer paled. "Ah--a charming woman. I have just been to see her," said Mr. van der Luyden, complacency restored to his brow. He sank into the chair, laid his hat and gloves on the floor beside him in the old-fashioned way, and went on: "She has a real gift for arranging flowers. I had sent her a few carnations from Skuytercliff, and I was astonished. Instead of massing them in big bunches as our head-gardener does, she had scattered them about loosely, here and there ... I can't say how. The Duke had told me: he said: 'Go and see how cleverly she's arranged her drawing-room.' And she has. I should really like to take Louisa to see her, if the neighbourhood were not so--unpleasant." A dead silence greeted this unusual flow of words from Mr. van der Luyden. Mrs. Archer drew	The Age Of Innocence
said Syme, quite motionless,	No speaker	elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth	stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then	to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was	you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet,	to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even	pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election" His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting. "Stop, you blasted madmen!" he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. "Stop, you" But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it" (loud and prolonged cheering). "To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore you. Do not elect this man." "Comrade Gregory," said the chairman after a painful pause, "this is really not quite dignified." For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again "The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of	treat. Do we line these walls with weapons and bar that door with death lest anyone should come and hear Comrade Gregory saying to us, Be good, and you will be happy,' Honesty is the best policy,' and Virtue is its own reward'? There was not a word in Comrade Gregory's address to which a curate could not have listened with pleasure" (hear, hear). "But I am not a curate" (loud cheers), "and I did not listen to it with pleasure" (renewed cheers). "The man who is fitted to make a good curate is not fitted to make a resolute, forcible, and efficient Thursday" (hear, hear)." "Comrade Gregory has told us, in only too apologetic a tone, that we are not the enemies of society. But I say that we are the enemies of society, and so much the worse for society. We are the enemies of society, for society is the enemy of humanity, its oldest and its most pitiless enemy" (hear, hear). "Comrade Gregory has told us (apologetically again) that we are not murderers. There I agree. We are not murderers, we are executioners (cheers)." Ever since Syme had risen Gregory had sat staring at him, his face idiotic with astonishment. Now in the pause his lips of clay parted, and he said, with an automatic and lifeless distinctness "You damnable hypocrite!" Syme looked straight into those frightful eyes with his own pale blue ones, and said with dignity "Comrade Gregory accuses me of hypocrisy. He knows as well as I do that I am keeping all my engagements and doing nothing but my duty. I do not mince words. I do not pretend to. I say that Comrade Gregory is unfit to be Thursday for all his amiable qualities. He is unfit to be Thursday because of his amiable qualities. We do not want the Supreme Council of Anarchy infected with a maudlin mercy" (hear, hear). "This is no time for ceremonial politeness, neither is it a time for ceremonial modesty. I set myself against Comrade Gregory as I would set myself against all the Governments of Europe, because the anarchist who has given himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride" (cheers). "I am not a man at all. I am a cause" (renewed cheers). "I set myself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally and as calmly as I should choose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election" His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting. "Stop, you blasted madmen!" he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. "Stop, you" But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it" (loud and prolonged cheering). "To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore you. Do not elect this man." "Comrade Gregory," said the chairman after a painful pause, "this is really not quite dignified." For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again "The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council." The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and three minutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe. Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery groups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred. They were silent for many minutes. "You are a devil!" said Gregory at last. "And you are a gentleman," said Syme with gravity. "It was you that entrapped me," began Gregory, shaking from head to foot, "entrapped me into" "Talk sense," said Syme shortly. "Into what sort of devils' parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death," and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table. "The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. "Be good enough to step this way." With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye. Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to the gaping Gregory. "You have kept your word," he said gently, with his face in shadow. "You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you	himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride" (cheers). "I am not a man at all. I am a cause" (renewed cheers). "I set myself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally and as calmly as I should choose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election" His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting. "Stop, you blasted madmen!" he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. "Stop, you" But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it" (loud and prolonged cheering). "To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you.	The Man Who Was Thursday
"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."	Jane Fairfax	again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your	are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of	family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge	I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April,	about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are	at her tongue's end--but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each. CHAPTER XVII When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect." "Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition." "I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do." "Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life." "You are very obliging;	unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--" "Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley. "It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing." This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away. "If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?" "He chose to say he was employed" "-- "Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley." "Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr. Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best." Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying-- "Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way." Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits. She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each. CHAPTER XVII When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect." "Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition." "I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do." "Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life." "You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for." "I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest." "You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I am." "And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily, "in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us." In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane, "Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his gallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature he is;--I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old	her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits. She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each. CHAPTER XVII When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect." "Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition." "I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do." "Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life." "You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for." "I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or	Emma
"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"	Newland Archer	got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're	them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling	clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home."	I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of	were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife	she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance." The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened	call, say I'm asleep." The maid disappeared, and the old lady turned to her grandson. "My dear, am I perfectly hideous?" she asked gaily, launching out one hand in search of the folds of muslin on her inaccessible bosom. "My daughters tell me it doesn't matter at my age--as if hideousness didn't matter all the more the harder it gets to conceal!" "My dear, you're handsomer than ever!" Archer rejoined in the same tone; and she threw back her head and laughed. "Ah, but not as handsome as Ellen!" she jerked out, twinkling at him maliciously; and before he could answer she added: "Was she so awfully handsome the day you drove her up from the ferry?" He laughed, and she continued: "Was it because you told her so that she had to put you out on the way? In my youth young men didn't desert pretty women unless they were made to!" She gave another chuckle, and interrupted it to say almost querulously: "It's a pity she didn't marry you; I always told her so. It would have spared me all this worry. But who ever thought of sparing their grandmother worry?" Archer wondered if her illness had blurred her faculties; but suddenly she broke out: "Well, it's settled, anyhow: she's going to stay with me, whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn't been here five minutes before I'd have gone down on my knees to keep her--if only, for the last twenty years, I'd been able to see where the floor was!" Archer listened in silence, and she went on: "They'd talked me over, as no doubt you know: persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, and Augusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that I must hold out and cut off her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to go back to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary, or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsome proposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, and money's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't know what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:" 'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!' "And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance." The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided to remain under her roof--especially now that Mrs. Mingott had almost regained her health--was less easy to explain. Archer was sure that Madame Olenska's decision had not been influenced by the change in her financial situation. He knew the exact figure of the small income which her husband had allowed her at their separation. Without the addition of her grandmother's allowance it was hardly enough to live on, in any sense known to the Mingott vocabulary; and now that Medora Manson, who shared her life, had been ruined, such a pittance would barely keep the two women clothed and fed. Yet Archer was convinced that Madame Olenska had not accepted her grandmother's offer from interested motives. She had the heedless generosity and the spasmodic extravagance of persons used to large fortunes, and indifferent to money; but she could go without many things which her relations considered indispensable, and Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Welland had often been heard to deplore that any one who had enjoyed the cosmopolitan luxuries of Count Olenski's establishments should care so little about "how things were done." Moreover, as Archer knew, several months had passed since her allowance had been cut off; yet in the interval she had made no effort to regain her grandmother's favour. Therefore if she had changed her course it must be for a different reason. He did not have far to seek for that reason. On the way from the ferry she had told him that he and she must remain apart; but she had said it with her head on his breast. He knew that there was no calculated coquetry in her words; she was fighting her fate as he had fought his, and clinging desperately to her resolve that they should not break faith with the people who trusted them. But during the ten days which had elapsed since her return to New York she had perhaps guessed from his silence, and from the fact of his making no attempt to see her, that he was meditating a decisive step, a step from which there was no turning back. At the thought, a sudden fear of her own weakness might have seized her, and she might have felt that, after all, it was better to accept the compromise usual in such cases, and follow	relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided to remain under her roof--especially now that Mrs. Mingott had almost regained her health--was less easy to explain. Archer was sure that Madame Olenska's decision had not been influenced by the change in her financial situation. He knew the exact figure of the small income which her husband had allowed her at their separation. Without the addition of her grandmother's allowance it was hardly enough to live on, in any sense known to the Mingott vocabulary; and now that Medora Manson, who shared her life, had been ruined, such a pittance would barely keep the two women clothed and fed. Yet Archer was convinced that Madame Olenska had not accepted her grandmother's offer from interested motives. She had the heedless generosity and the spasmodic extravagance of persons used to	The Age Of Innocence
said Anne,	No speaker	bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much.	with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I	comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted.	nicer." "I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?" All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert	not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this." When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. "Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with _such_ sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer." "I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?" All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. "Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. "Everything went off very well," said Diana practically. "I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of	had suddenly filled with tears. "Like it! Oh, Matthew!" Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. "Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream." "Well, well, let us have breakfast," interrupted Marilla. "I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the dress; but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There's a hair ribbon Mrs. Lynde left for you. It's brown, to match the dress. Come now, sit in." "I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast," said Anne rapturously. "Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment. I'd rather feast my eyes on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It's at times like this I'm sorry I'm not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this." When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. "Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with _such_ sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer." "I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?" All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. "Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. "Everything went off very well," said Diana practically. "I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers." "Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrill to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was encored. I just said to myself," ?It is my dear bosom friend who is so honored.'" "Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid." "Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan called out my name I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practiced those recitations so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right?" "Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely," assured Diana. "I	good, warm, serviceable ones this fall, and anything more is sheer extravagance. There's enough material in those sleeves alone to make a waist, I declare there is. You'll just pamper Anne's vanity, Matthew, and she's as vain as a peacock now. Well, I hope she'll be satisfied at last, for I know she's been hankering after those silly sleeves ever since they came in, although she never said a word after the first. The puffs have been getting bigger and more ridiculous right along; they're as big as balloons now. Next year anybody who wears them will have to go through a door sideways." Christmas morning broke on a beautiful white world. It had been a very mild December and people had looked forward to a green Christmas; but just enough snow fell softly in the night to transfigure Avonlea. Anne peeped out from her frosted gable window with delighted eyes. The firs in the Haunted Wood were all feathery and wonderful; the birches and wild cherry trees were outlined in pearl; the plowed fields were stretches of snowy dimples; and there was a crisp tang in the air that was glorious. Anne ran downstairs singing until her voice reechoed through Green Gables. "Merry Christmas, Marilla! Merry Christmas, Matthew! Isn't it a lovely Christmas? I'm so glad it's white. Any other kind of Christmas doesn't seem real, does it? I don't like green Christmases. They're not green--they're just nasty faded browns and grays. What makes people call them green? Why--why--Matthew, is that for me? Oh, Matthew!" Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from its paper swathings and held it out with a deprecatory glance at Marilla, who feigned to be contemptuously filling the teapot, but nevertheless watched the scene out of the corner of her eye with a rather interested air. Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent silence. Oh, how pretty it was--a lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk; a skirt with dainty frills and shirrings; a waist elaborately pintucked in the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck. But the sleeves--they were the crowning glory! Long elbow cuffs, and above them two beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown-silk ribbon. "That's a Christmas present for you, Anne," said Matthew shyly. "Why--why--Anne, don't you like it? Well now--well now." For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears. "Like it! Oh, Matthew!" Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. "Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream." "Well, well, let us have breakfast," interrupted Marilla. "I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the dress; but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There's a hair ribbon Mrs. Lynde left for you. It's brown, to match the dress. Come now, sit in." "I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast," said Anne rapturously. "Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment. I'd rather feast my eyes on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It's at times like this I'm sorry I'm not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this." When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. "Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with _such_ sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer." "I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?" All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. "Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. "Everything went off very well," said Diana practically. "I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers." "Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrill to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was encored. I just said to myself," ?It is my dear bosom friend who is so honored.'" "Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid." "Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan called out my name I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practiced those recitations so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right?" "Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely," assured Diana. "I saw old Mrs. Sloane wiping away tears when I sat down. It was splendid to think I had touched somebody's heart. It's so romantic to take part in a concert, isn't it? Oh, it's been a very memorable occasion indeed." "Wasn't the boys' dialogue fine?" said Diana. "Gilbert Blythe was just splendid. Anne, I do think it's awful mean the way you treat Gil. Wait till I tell you. When you ran off the platform after the fairy dialogue one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil pick it up and put it in his breast pocket. There now. You're so romantic that I'm sure you ought to be pleased at that." "It's nothing to me what that person does," said Anne loftily. "I simply never waste a thought on him, Diana." That night Marilla and Matthew, who had been out to a concert for the first time in twenty years, sat for a while by the kitchen fire after Anne had gone to bed. "Well now, I guess our Anne did as well as any of them," said Matthew proudly. "Yes, she did," admitted Marilla. "She's a bright child, Matthew. And she looked real nice too. I've been kind of opposed to this concert scheme, but I suppose there's no real harm in it after all. Anyhow, I was proud of Anne tonight, although I'm not going to tell her so." "Well now, I was proud of her and I did tell her so ?fore she went upstairs," said Matthew. "We must see what we can do for her some of these days, Marilla. I guess she'll need something more than Avonlea school by and by." "There's time enough to think of that," said Marilla. "She's only thirteen in March. Though tonight it struck me she was growing quite a big girl. Mrs. Lynde made that dress a mite too long, and it makes Anne look so tall. She's quick to learn and I guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to Queen's after a spell. But nothing need be said about that for a year or two yet." "Well now, it'll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on," said Matthew. "Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over." CHAPTER XXVI. The Story Club Is Formed \|JUNIOR Avonlea found it	was--a lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk; a skirt with dainty frills and shirrings; a waist elaborately pintucked in the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck. But the sleeves--they were the crowning glory! Long elbow cuffs, and above them two beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown-silk ribbon. "That's a Christmas present for you, Anne," said Matthew shyly. "Why--why--Anne, don't you like it? Well now--well now." For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears. "Like it! Oh, Matthew!" Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. "Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream." "Well, well, let us have breakfast," interrupted Marilla. "I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the dress; but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There's a hair ribbon Mrs. Lynde left for you. It's brown, to match the dress. Come now, sit in." "I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast," said Anne rapturously. "Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment. I'd rather feast my eyes on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It's at times like this I'm sorry I'm not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this." When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. "Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with _such_ sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer." "I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?" All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. "Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. "Everything went off very well," said Diana practically. "I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers." "Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrill to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was encored. I just said to myself," ?It is my dear bosom friend who is so honored.'" "Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid." "Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan called out my name I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practiced those recitations so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right?" "Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely," assured Diana. "I saw old Mrs. Sloane	Anne Of Green Gables
"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."	Alexis Ivanovitch	away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he	do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a	caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in	Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely	see you," he said; "and you appear to be out on a similar errand. So you have parted with your employers?" "How do you know that?" I asked in astonishment. "Is _every one_ aware of the fact?" "By no means. Not every one would consider such a fact to be of moment. Indeed, I have never heard any one speak of it." "Then how come you to know it?" "Because I have had occasion to do so. Whither are you bound? I like you, and was therefore coming to pay you a visit." "What a splendid fellow you are, Mr. Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely enough, he had no sooner seated himself and bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some reason or another, I felt moved to tell him everything to speak to him of my love in all its phases. For an hour and a half did I discourse on the subject, and found it a pleasure to do so, even though this was the first occasion on which I had referred to the matter. Indeed, when, at certain moments, I perceived that my more ardent passages confused him, I purposely increased my ardour of narration. Yet one thing I regret: and	threats which I had uttered at random last night had made everybody so alarmed? Secondly, what was the influence which this Frenchman appeared to exercise over Polina? He had but to give the word, and at once she did as he desired at once she wrote me a note to beg of me to forbear! Of course, the relations between the pair had, from the first, been a riddle to me they had been so ever since I had first made their acquaintance. But of late I had remarked in her a strong aversion for, even a contempt for him, while, for his part, he had scarcely even looked at her, but had behaved towards her always in the most churlish fashion. Yes, I had noted that. Also, Polina herself had mentioned to me her dislike for him, and delivered herself of some remarkable confessions on the subject. Hence, he must have got her into his power somehow somehow he must be holding her as in a vice. VIII All at once, on the Promenade, as it was called that is to say, in the Chestnut Avenue I came face to face with my Englishman. "I was just coming to see you," he said; "and you appear to be out on a similar errand. So you have parted with your employers?" "How do you know that?" I asked in astonishment. "Is _every one_ aware of the fact?" "By no means. Not every one would consider such a fact to be of moment. Indeed, I have never heard any one speak of it." "Then how come you to know it?" "Because I have had occasion to do so. Whither are you bound? I like you, and was therefore coming to pay you a visit." "What a splendid fellow you are, Mr. Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely enough, he had no sooner seated himself and bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some reason or another, I felt moved to tell him everything to speak to him of my love in all its phases. For an hour and a half did I discourse on the subject, and found it a pleasure to do so, even though this was the first occasion on which I had referred to the matter. Indeed, when, at certain moments, I perceived that my more ardent passages confused him, I purposely increased my ardour of narration. Yet one thing I regret: and that is that I made references to the Frenchman which were a little over-personal. Mr. Astley sat without moving as he listened to me. Not a word nor a sound of any kind did he utter as he stared into my eyes. Suddenly, however, on my mentioning the Frenchman, he interrupted me, and inquired sternly whether I did right to speak of an extraneous matter (he had always been a strange man in his mode of propounding questions). "No, I fear not," I replied. "And concerning this Marquis and Mlle. Polina you know nothing beyond surmise?" Again I was surprised that such a categorical question should come from such a reserved individual. "No, I know nothing _for certain_ about them" was my reply. "No nothing." "Then you have done very wrong to speak of them to me, or even to imagine things about them." "Quite so, quite so," I interrupted in some astonishment. "I admit that. Yet that is not the question." Whereupon I related to him in detail the incident of two days ago. I spoke of Polina s outburst, of my encounter with the Baron, of my dismissal, of the General s extraordinary pusillanimity, and of the call	beginning to play the fool! Certain circumstances, however, I may explain to you later. Pray cease from your folly, and put a check upon yourself. For folly it all is. I have need of you, and, moreover, you have promised to obey me. Remember the Shlangenberg. I ask you to be obedient. If necessary, I shall even _bid_ you be obedient. Your own" POLINA. "_P.S._ If so be that you still bear a grudge against me for what happened last night, pray forgive me." Everything, to my eyes, seemed to change as I read these words. My lips grew pale, and I began to tremble. Meanwhile, the cursed Frenchman was eyeing me discreetly and askance, as though he wished to avoid witnessing my confusion. It would have been better if he had laughed outright. "Very well," I said, "you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say." "Well, pardon some natural haste on my part, for the situation is so strange. I wished first to gain some personal knowledge of your intentions; and, moreover, I did not know the contents of the note, and thought that it could be given you at any time." "I understand," I replied. "So you were ordered to hand me the note only in the last resort, and if you could not otherwise appease me? Is it not so? Speak out, Monsieur de Griers." "Perhaps," said he, assuming a look of great forbearance, but gazing at me in a meaning way. I reached for my hat; whereupon he nodded, and went out. Yet on his lips I fancied that I could see a mocking smile. How could it have been otherwise? "You and I are to have a reckoning later, Master Frenchman," I muttered as I descended the stairs. "Yes, we will measure our strength together." Yet my thoughts were all in confusion, for again something seemed to have struck me dizzy. Presently the air revived me a little, and, a couple of minutes later, my brain had sufficiently cleared to enable two ideas in particular to stand out in it. Firstly, I asked myself, which of the absurd, boyish, and extravagant threats which I had uttered at random last night had made everybody so alarmed? Secondly, what was the influence which this Frenchman appeared to exercise over Polina? He had but to give the word, and at once she did as he desired at once she wrote me a note to beg of me to forbear! Of course, the relations between the pair had, from the first, been a riddle to me they had been so ever since I had first made their acquaintance. But of late I had remarked in her a strong aversion for, even a contempt for him, while, for his part, he had scarcely even looked at her, but had behaved towards her always in the most churlish fashion. Yes, I had noted that. Also, Polina herself had mentioned to me her dislike for him, and delivered herself of some remarkable confessions on the subject. Hence, he must have got her into his power somehow somehow he must be holding her as in a vice. VIII All at once, on the Promenade, as it was called that is to say, in the Chestnut Avenue I came face to face with my Englishman. "I was just coming to see you," he said; "and you appear to be out on a similar errand. So you have parted with your employers?" "How do you know that?" I asked in astonishment. "Is _every one_ aware of the fact?" "By no means. Not every one would consider such a fact to be of moment. Indeed, I have never heard any one speak of it." "Then how come you to know it?" "Because I have had occasion to do so. Whither are you bound? I like you, and was therefore coming to pay you a visit." "What a splendid fellow you are, Mr. Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely enough, he had no sooner seated himself and bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some reason or another, I felt moved to tell him everything to speak to him of my love in all its phases. For an hour and a half did I discourse on the subject, and found it a pleasure to do so, even though this was the first occasion on which I had referred to the matter. Indeed, when, at certain moments, I perceived that my more ardent passages confused him, I purposely increased my ardour of narration. Yet one thing I regret: and that is that I made references to the Frenchman which were a little over-personal. Mr. Astley sat without moving as he listened to me. Not a word nor a sound of any kind did he utter as he stared into my eyes. Suddenly, however, on my mentioning the Frenchman, he interrupted me, and inquired sternly whether I did right to speak of an extraneous matter (he had always been a strange man in his mode of propounding questions). "No, I fear not," I replied. "And concerning this Marquis and Mlle. Polina you know nothing beyond surmise?" Again I was surprised that such a categorical question should come from such a reserved individual. "No, I know nothing _for certain_ about them" was my reply. "No nothing." "Then you have done very wrong to speak of them to me, or even to imagine things about them." "Quite so, quite so," I interrupted in some astonishment. "I admit that. Yet that is not the question." Whereupon I related to him in detail the incident of two days ago. I spoke of Polina s outburst, of my encounter with the Baron, of my dismissal, of the General s extraordinary pusillanimity, and of the call which De Griers had that morning paid me. In conclusion, I showed Astley the note which I had lately received. "What do you make of it?" I asked. "When I met you I was just coming to ask you your opinion. For myself, I could have killed this Frenchman, and am not sure that I shall not do so even yet." "I feel the same about it," said Mr. Astley. "As for Mlle. Polina well, you yourself know that, if necessity drives, one enters into relation with people whom one simply detests. Even between this couple there may be something which, though unknown to you, depends upon extraneous circumstances. For, my own part, I think that you may reassure yourself or at all events partially. And as for Mlle. Polina s proceedings of two days ago, they were, of course, strange; not because she can have meant to get rid of you, or to earn for you a thrashing from the Baron s cudgel (which for some curious reason, he did not use, although he had it ready in his hands), but because such proceedings on the part of such well, of such a refined lady as Mlle. Polina are, to say the least of it, unbecoming. But she cannot have guessed that you would carry out her absurd wish to the letter?" "Do you know what?" suddenly I cried as I fixed Mr. Astley with my gaze. "I believe that you have already heard the story from some one very possibly from Mlle. Polina herself?" In return he gave me an astonished stare. "Your eyes look very fiery," he said with a return of his former calm, "and in them I can read suspicion. Now, you have no right whatever to be suspicious. It is not a right which I can for a moment recognise, and I absolutely refuse to answer your questions." "Enough! You need say no more," I cried with a strange emotion at my heart, yet not altogether understanding what had aroused that emotion in my breast. Indeed, when, where, and how could Polina have chosen Astley to be one of her confidants? Of late I had come rather to overlook him in this connection, even though Polina had always been a riddle to me so much so that now, when I had just permitted myself to tell my friend of my infatuation in all its	the note only in the last resort, and if you could not otherwise appease me? Is it not so? Speak out, Monsieur de Griers." "Perhaps," said he, assuming a look of great forbearance, but gazing at me in a meaning way. I reached for my hat; whereupon he nodded, and went out. Yet on his lips I fancied that I could see a mocking smile. How could it have been otherwise? "You and I are to have a reckoning later, Master Frenchman," I muttered as I descended the stairs. "Yes, we will measure our strength together." Yet my thoughts were all in confusion, for again something seemed to have struck me dizzy. Presently the air revived me a little, and, a couple of minutes later, my brain had sufficiently cleared to enable two ideas in particular to stand out in it. Firstly, I asked myself, which of the absurd, boyish, and extravagant threats which I had uttered at random last night had made everybody so alarmed? Secondly, what was the influence which this Frenchman appeared to exercise over Polina? He had but to give the word, and at once she did as he desired at once she wrote me a note to beg of me to forbear! Of course, the relations between the pair had, from the first, been a riddle to me they had been so ever since I had first made their acquaintance. But of late I had remarked in her a strong aversion for, even a contempt for him, while, for his part, he had scarcely even looked at her, but had behaved towards her always in the most churlish fashion. Yes, I had noted that. Also, Polina herself had mentioned to me her dislike for him, and delivered herself of some remarkable confessions on the subject. Hence, he must have got her into his power somehow somehow he must be holding her as in a vice. VIII All at once, on the Promenade, as it was called that is to say, in the Chestnut Avenue I came face to face with my Englishman. "I was just coming to see you," he said; "and you appear to be out on a similar errand. So you have parted with your employers?" "How do you know that?" I asked in astonishment. "Is _every one_ aware of the fact?" "By no means. Not every one would consider such a fact to be of moment. Indeed, I have never heard any one speak of it." "Then how come you to know it?" "Because I have had occasion to do so. Whither are you bound? I like you, and was therefore coming to pay you a visit." "What a splendid fellow you are, Mr. Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely enough, he had no sooner seated himself and bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some reason or another, I felt moved to tell him everything to speak to him of my love in all its phases. For an hour and a half did I discourse on the subject, and found it a pleasure to do so, even though this was the first occasion on which I had referred to the matter. Indeed, when, at certain moments, I perceived that my more ardent passages confused him, I purposely increased my ardour of narration. Yet one thing I regret: and that is that I made references to the Frenchman which were a little over-personal. Mr. Astley sat without moving as he listened to me. Not a word nor a sound of any kind did he utter as he stared into my eyes. Suddenly, however, on my mentioning the Frenchman, he interrupted me, and inquired sternly whether I did right to speak of an extraneous matter (he had always been a strange man in	The Gambler
"Come, my good fellow!"	Mr. Bumble	fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man	very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want	was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces;	keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again. "Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. "Fill up!" It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely	down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper. At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again. "Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. "Fill up!" It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways. "Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?" "Pretty well, thank you, sir" replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir." "Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all	been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street. "Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!" whispered Sowerberry in the old woman's ear; "we are rather late; and it won't do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men, as quick as you like!" Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side. There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper. At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again. "Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. "Fill up!" It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways. "Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?" "Pretty well, thank you, sir" replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir." "Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard. CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses. For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded	came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They starved her!" He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips. The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker. "She was my daughter," said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. "Lord, Lord! Well, it _is_ strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord! to think of it; it's as good as a play as good as a play!" As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away. "Stop, stop!" said the old woman in a loud whisper. "Will she be buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night? I laid her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind; send some bread only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?" she said eagerly: catching at the undertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door. "Yes, yes," said the undertaker, "of course. Anything you like!" He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away. The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street. "Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!" whispered Sowerberry in the old woman's ear; "we are rather late; and it won't do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men, as quick as you like!" Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side. There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper. At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again. "Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. "Fill up!" It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways. "Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?" "Pretty well, thank you, sir" replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir." "Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard. CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses. For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be quite cheerful and contented conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration. That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery. And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time,	grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away. The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street. "Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!" whispered Sowerberry in the old woman's ear; "we are rather late; and it won't do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men, as quick as you like!" Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side. There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper. At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again. "Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. "Fill up!" It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways. "Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?" "Pretty well, thank you, sir" replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir." "Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard. CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In	Oliver Twist
'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'	No speaker	"wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it	She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick	remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like	I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the	the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She summoned physical disgust. "You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them,	Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?" "I--I had to." "Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?" Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She summoned physical disgust. "You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly to Greece, and never see him again, or forget his very name, George will work in your thoughts till you die. It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal." Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her anger passed away soon, her tears remained. "I only wish poets would say this, too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul! Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all the cant with which superstition has wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot say how they came nor whither they go, but we have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot bear it. It is again the darkness creeping in; it is hell." Then he checked	the way to Greece?" Her manner altered. "To Greece?" "So you must stop. You won't talk about this business, I know. I can trust you both." "Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen." "I shouldn't want--" "I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we deserve sorrow." She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman. More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair. "No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage." "Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired." "Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips. "But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece" "--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought." "Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse." "Thank you." At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?" "I--I had to." "Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?" Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She summoned physical disgust. "You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly to Greece, and never see him again, or forget his very name, George will work in your thoughts till you die. It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal." Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her anger passed away soon, her tears remained. "I only wish poets would say this, too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul! Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all the cant with which superstition has wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot say how they came nor whither they go, but we have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot bear it. It is again the darkness creeping in; it is hell." Then he checked himself. "What nonsense I have talked--how abstract and remote! And I have made you cry! Dear girl, forgive my prosiness; marry my boy. When I think what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love--Marry him; it is one of the moments for which the world was made." She could not understand him; the words were indeed remote. Yet as he spoke the darkness was withdrawn, veil after veil, and she saw to the bottom of her soul. "Then, Lucy--" "You've frightened me," she moaned. "Cecil--Mr. Beebe--the ticket's bought--everything." She fell sobbing into the chair. "I'm caught in the tangle. I must suffer and grow old away from him. I cannot break the whole of life for his sake. They trusted me." A carriage drew up at the front-door. "Give George my love--once only. Tell him" 'muddle.'" Then she arranged her veil, while the tears poured over her cheeks inside. "Lucy--" "No--they are in the hall--oh, please not, Mr. Emerson--they trust me--" "But why should they, when you have deceived them?" Mr. Beebe opened the door, saying: "Here's my mother." "You're not worthy of their trust." "What's that?" said Mr. Beebe sharply. "I was saying, why should you trust her when she deceived you?" "One minute, mother." He came in and shut the door. "I don't follow you, Mr. Emerson. To whom do you refer? Trust whom?" "I mean she has pretended to you that she did not love George. They have loved one another all along." Mr. Beebe looked at the sobbing girl. He was very quiet, and his white face, with its ruddy whiskers, seemed suddenly inhuman. A long black column, he stood and awaited her reply. "I shall never marry him," quavered Lucy. A look of contempt came over him, and he said, "Why not?" "Mr. Beebe--I have misled you--I have misled myself--" "Oh, rubbish, Miss Honeychurch!" "It is not rubbish!" said the old man hotly. "It's the part of people that you don't understand." Mr. Beebe laid his hand on the old man's shoulder pleasantly. "Lucy! Lucy!" called voices from the carriage. "Mr. Beebe, could you help me?" He looked amazed at the request, and said in a low, stern voice: "I am more grieved than I can possibly express. It is lamentable, lamentable--incredible." "What's wrong with the boy?" fired up the other again. "Nothing, Mr. Emerson, except that he no longer interests me.	hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse." "Thank you." At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?" "I--I had to." "Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?" Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She summoned physical disgust. "You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly to Greece, and never see him again, or forget his very name, George will work in your thoughts till you die. It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal." Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her anger passed away soon, her tears remained. "I only wish poets would say this, too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul! Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all the cant with which superstition has wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot say how they came nor whither they go, but we have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot bear	A Room With A View
"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"	Mrs. Thingummy	and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron,	said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch	it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came	she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or	"I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of	when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the	as she spoke, the old creature shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait? "Not long, mistress," replied the second woman, looking up into her face. "We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He'll be here soon enough for us all." "Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!" said the matron sternly. "You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?" "Often," answered the first woman. "But will never be again," added the second one; "that is, she'll never wake again but once and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!" "Long or short," said the matron, snappishly, "she won't find me here when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won't that's more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!" She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them. "Who's that?" she cried, in a hollow voice. "Hush, hush!" said one of the women, stooping over her. "Lie down, lie down!" "I'll never lie down again alive!" said the woman, struggling. "I _will_ tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear." She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners. "Turn them away," said the woman, drowsily; "make haste! make haste!" The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company. Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be "blowed," or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days. "That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter. "Matter, Fagin!" cried Charley. "I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!" said the Jew, with a	crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his	Oliver Twist
"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"	Mrs. Rattery	which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose	voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to	want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I	with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone	to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had	John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her... I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle." The two men stood in silence. Tony said, "Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate	also Mr Tendril and his niece; a policeman and Ben and two men who had helped bring up the body were in the servants' hall. "It wasn't the kid's fault," said Ben. "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. "He'd had a lousy day, too, poor little bastard," said Ben. "If it was anyone's fault it was Mr Grant-Menzies making him go in." "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. * * * * * Tony was alone in the library. The first thing he said, when Jock came in, was, "We've got to tell Brenda." "D'you know where to get her?" "She's probably at that school... But we can't tell her over the telephone... Anyway, Ambrose has tried there and the flat but he can't get through... What on earth are we going to say to her?" Jock was silent. He stood in the fireplace with his hands in the pockets of his breeches, with his back to Tony. Presently Tony said, "You weren't anywhere near, were you?" "No, we'd gone on to another covert." "That niece of Mr Tendril's told me first... then we met them coming up, and Ben told me all that happened... It's awful for the girl." "Miss Ripon?" "Yes, she's just left... she had a nasty fall too, just after. Her horse slipped up in the village... she was in a terrible state, poor child, what with that and... John. She didn't know she'd hurt him until quite a time afterwards... she was in the chemist's shop having a bandage put on her head, when they told her. She cut it falling. She was in a terrible state. I sent her back in the car... it wasn't her fault." "No, it wasn't anybody's fault. It just happened." "That's it," said Tony. "It just happened... how are we going to tell Brenda?" "One of us will have to go up." "Yes... I think I shall have to stay here. I don't know why really, but there will be things to see to. It's an awful thing to ask anyone to do..." "I'll go," said Jock. "There'll be things to see to there... there's got to be an inquest the doctor says. It's purely formal, of course, but it will be ghastly for that Ripon girl. She'll have to give evidence... she was in a terrible state. I hope I was all right to her. They'd just brought John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her... I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle." The two men stood in silence. Tony said, "Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because there's no one else in the flat. She leaves it locked up, empty, when she goes out... and she's out half the day. I know because I sometimes ring up and can't get an answer. He may not find her for hours... It may be as long again as the time since it happened. That would only make it eight o'clock. It's quite likely she won't come in until eight... Think of it, all the time between now and when it happened, before Brenda hears. It's scarcely credible, is it? And then she's got to get down here. There's a train that leaves at nine something. She might get that. I wonder if I ought to have gone up too... I didn't like to leave John." (Mrs Rattery sat intent over her game, moving little groups of cards adroitly backwards and forwards about the table like shuttles across a loom; under her fingers order grew out of chaos; she established sequence and precedence; the symbols before her became coherent, interrelated.) "...Of course she may be at home when he arrives. In that case she can get the evening train she used always to come by, when she went to London for the day, before she got the flat... I'm trying to see it all, as it's going to happen,	of course, but it will be ghastly for that Ripon girl. She'll have to give evidence... she was in a terrible state. I hope I was all right to her. They'd just brought John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her... I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle." The two men stood in silence. Tony said, "Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course	A Handful Of Dust
"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"	The Invisible Man	Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said	smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where	a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known	his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this	himself. "I say!" he said. "But this is nonsense. It s some trick." He stepped forward suddenly, and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers. He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed. "Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop!" The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the	closed the door of the room, came forward to the dressing-table, and put down his burdens. Suddenly, with a start, he perceived a coiled and blood-stained bandage of linen rag hanging in mid-air, between him and the wash-hand stand. He stared at this in amazement. It was an empty bandage, a bandage properly tied but quite empty. He would have advanced to grasp it, but a touch arrested him, and a voice speaking quite close to him. "Kemp!" said the Voice. "Eh?" said Kemp, with his mouth open. "Keep your nerve," said the Voice. "I m an Invisible Man." Kemp made no answer for a space, simply stared at the bandage. "Invisible Man," he said. "I am an Invisible Man," repeated the Voice. The story he had been active to ridicule only that morning rushed through Kemp s brain. He does not appear to have been either very much frightened or very greatly surprised at the moment. Realisation came later. "I thought it was all a lie," he said. The thought uppermost in his mind was the reiterated arguments of the morning. "Have you a bandage on?" he asked. "Yes," said the Invisible Man. "Oh!" said Kemp, and then roused himself. "I say!" he said. "But this is nonsense. It s some trick." He stepped forward suddenly, and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers. He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed. "Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop!" The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly," said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes. "Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of	centre of the circle of light his lampshade threw on his table. It was two o clock before Dr. Kemp had finished his work for the night. He rose, yawned, and went downstairs to bed. He had already removed his coat and vest, when he noticed that he was thirsty. He took a candle and went down to the dining-room in search of a syphon and whiskey. Dr. Kemp s scientific pursuits have made him a very observant man, and as he recrossed the hall, he noticed a dark spot on the linoleum near the mat at the foot of the stairs. He went on upstairs, and then it suddenly occurred to him to ask himself what the spot on the linoleum might be. Apparently some subconscious element was at work. At any rate, he turned with his burden, went back to the hall, put down the syphon and whiskey, and bending down, touched the spot. Without any great surprise he found it had the stickiness and colour of drying blood. He took up his burden again, and returned upstairs, looking about him and trying to account for the blood-spot. On the landing he saw something and stopped astonished. The door-handle of his own room was blood-stained. He looked at his own hand. It was quite clean, and then he remembered that the door of his room had been open when he came down from his study, and that consequently he had not touched the handle at all. He went straight into his room, his face quite calm perhaps a trifle more resolute than usual. His glance, wandering inquisitively, fell on the bed. On the counterpane was a mess of blood, and the sheet had been torn. He had not noticed this before because he had walked straight to the dressing-table. On the further side the bedclothes were depressed as if someone had been recently sitting there. Then he had an odd impression that he had heard a low voice say, "Good Heavens! Kemp!" But Dr. Kemp was no believer in voices. He stood staring at the tumbled sheets. Was that really a voice? He looked about again, but noticed nothing further than the disordered and blood-stained bed. Then he distinctly heard a movement across the room, near the wash-hand stand. All men, however highly educated, retain some superstitious inklings. The feeling that is called "eerie" came upon him. He closed the door of the room, came forward to the dressing-table, and put down his burdens. Suddenly, with a start, he perceived a coiled and blood-stained bandage of linen rag hanging in mid-air, between him and the wash-hand stand. He stared at this in amazement. It was an empty bandage, a bandage properly tied but quite empty. He would have advanced to grasp it, but a touch arrested him, and a voice speaking quite close to him. "Kemp!" said the Voice. "Eh?" said Kemp, with his mouth open. "Keep your nerve," said the Voice. "I m an Invisible Man." Kemp made no answer for a space, simply stared at the bandage. "Invisible Man," he said. "I am an Invisible Man," repeated the Voice. The story he had been active to ridicule only that morning rushed through Kemp s brain. He does not appear to have been either very much frightened or very greatly surprised at the moment. Realisation came later. "I thought it was all a lie," he said. The thought uppermost in his mind was the reiterated arguments of the morning. "Have you a bandage on?" he asked. "Yes," said the Invisible Man. "Oh!" said Kemp, and then roused himself. "I say!" he said. "But this is nonsense. It s some trick." He stepped forward suddenly, and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers. He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed. "Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop!" The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly," said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes. "Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives," said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing. "Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful" "Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. It s only the living tissue I ve changed, and only for as long as I m alive.... I ve been in the house three hours." "But how s it done?" began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. "Confound it! The whole business it s unreasonable from beginning to end." "Quite reasonable," said the Invisible Man. "Perfectly reasonable." He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs. "What were the shots?" he asked. "How did the shooting begin?" "There was a real fool of a man a sort of confederate of mine curse him! who tried to steal my money. _Has_ done so." "Is _he_ invisible too?" "No." "Well?" "Can t I have some more to eat before	the Invisible Man. "Oh!" said Kemp, and then roused himself. "I say!" he said. "But this is nonsense. It s some trick." He stepped forward suddenly, and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers. He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed. "Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop!" The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor	The Invisible Man
"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"	Mr. Clacton	you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang,	t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent	resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For	"My dear Sally, don t apologize," said Mary, laughing. "Men are such pedants they don t know what things matter, and what things don t." "Now, Denham, speak up for our sex," said Mr. Clacton in a jocular manner, indeed, but like most insignificant men he was very quick to resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For if I were to tell you what I know of back-stairs intrigue, and what can be done by the power of the purse, you wouldn t credit me, Mr. Denham, you wouldn t, indeed. Which is why I feel that the only work for my father s daughter for he	displayed themselves by a tossing movement of her head, and, as Ralph took a letter from his pocket, and placed his finger upon a certain sentence, she forestalled him by exclaiming in confusion: "Now, I know what you re going to say, Mr. Denham! But it was the day Kit Markham was here, and she upsets one so with her wonderful vitality, always thinking of something new that we ought to be doing and aren t and I was conscious at the time that my dates were mixed. It had nothing to do with Mary at all, I assure you." "My dear Sally, don t apologize," said Mary, laughing. "Men are such pedants they don t know what things matter, and what things don t." "Now, Denham, speak up for our sex," said Mr. Clacton in a jocular manner, indeed, but like most insignificant men he was very quick to resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For if I were to tell you what I know of back-stairs intrigue, and what can be done by the power of the purse, you wouldn t credit me, Mr. Denham, you wouldn t, indeed. Which is why I feel that the only work for my father s daughter for he was one of the pioneers, Mr. Denham, and on his tombstone I had that verse from the Psalms put, about the sowers and the seed.... And what wouldn t I give that he should be alive now, seeing what we re going to see" but reflecting that the glories of the future depended in part upon the activity of her typewriter, she bobbed her head, and hurried back to the seclusion of her little room, from which immediately issued sounds of enthusiastic, but obviously erratic, composition. Mary made it clear at once, by starting a fresh topic of general interest,	what was otherwise inexplicable. The light kindled in Mr. Clacton s eye. "Ah, indeed. That interests me very much," he said. "I owe a great debt to your grandfather, Miss Hilbery. At one time I could have repeated the greater part of him by heart. But one gets out of the way of reading poetry, unfortunately. You don t remember him, I suppose?" A sharp rap at the door made Katharine s answer inaudible. Mrs. Seal looked up with renewed hope in her eyes, and exclaiming: "The proofs at last!" ran to open the door. "Oh, it s only Mr. Denham!" she cried, without any attempt to conceal her disappointment. Ralph, Katharine supposed, was a frequent visitor, for the only person he thought it necessary to greet was herself, and Mary at once explained the strange fact of her being there by saying: "Katharine has come to see how one runs an office." Ralph felt himself stiffen uncomfortably, as he said: "I hope Mary hasn t persuaded you that she knows how to run an office?" "What, doesn t she?" said Katharine, looking from one to the other. At these remarks Mrs. Seal began to exhibit signs of discomposure, which displayed themselves by a tossing movement of her head, and, as Ralph took a letter from his pocket, and placed his finger upon a certain sentence, she forestalled him by exclaiming in confusion: "Now, I know what you re going to say, Mr. Denham! But it was the day Kit Markham was here, and she upsets one so with her wonderful vitality, always thinking of something new that we ought to be doing and aren t and I was conscious at the time that my dates were mixed. It had nothing to do with Mary at all, I assure you." "My dear Sally, don t apologize," said Mary, laughing. "Men are such pedants they don t know what things matter, and what things don t." "Now, Denham, speak up for our sex," said Mr. Clacton in a jocular manner, indeed, but like most insignificant men he was very quick to resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For if I were to tell you what I know of back-stairs intrigue, and what can be done by the power of the purse, you wouldn t credit me, Mr. Denham, you wouldn t, indeed. Which is why I feel that the only work for my father s daughter for he was one of the pioneers, Mr. Denham, and on his tombstone I had that verse from the Psalms put, about the sowers and the seed.... And what wouldn t I give that he should be alive now, seeing what we re going to see" but reflecting that the glories of the future depended in part upon the activity of her typewriter, she bobbed her head, and hurried back to the seclusion of her little room, from which immediately issued sounds of enthusiastic, but obviously erratic, composition. Mary made it clear at once, by starting a fresh topic of general interest, that though she saw the humor of her colleague, she did not intend to have her laughed at. "The standard of morality seems to me frightfully low," she observed reflectively, pouring out a second cup of tea, "especially among women who aren t well educated. They don t see that small things matter, and that s where the leakage begins, and then we find ourselves in difficulties I very nearly lost my temper yesterday," she went on, looking at Ralph with a little smile, as though he knew what happened when she lost her temper. "It makes me very angry when people tell me lies doesn t it make you angry?" she asked Katharine. "But considering that every one tells lies," Katharine remarked, looking about the room to see where she had put down her umbrella and her parcel, for there was an intimacy in the way in which Mary and Ralph addressed each other which made her wish to leave them. Mary, on the other hand, was anxious, superficially at least, that Katharine should stay and so fortify her in her determination not to be in love with Ralph. Ralph, while lifting his cup from his lips to the	with us." Mr. Clacton cleared his throat and looked at each of the young ladies in turn. He was a good deal struck by the appearance and manner of Miss Hilbery, which seemed to him to place her among those cultivated and luxurious people of whom he used to dream. Mary, on the other hand, was more of his own sort, and a little too much inclined to order him about. He picked up crumbs of dry biscuit and put them into his mouth with incredible rapidity. "You don t belong to our society, then?" said Mrs. Seal. "No, I m afraid I don t," said Katharine, with such ready candor that Mrs. Seal was nonplussed, and stared at her with a puzzled expression, as if she could not classify her among the varieties of human beings known to her. "But surely," she began. "Mrs. Seal is an enthusiast in these matters," said Mr. Clacton, almost apologetically. "We have to remind her sometimes that others have a right to their views even if they differ from our own...." "Punch" "has a very funny picture this week, about a Suffragist and an agricultural laborer. Have you seen this week s" "Punch," "Miss Datchet?" Mary laughed, and said "No." Mr. Clacton then told them the substance of the joke, which, however, depended a good deal for its success upon the expression which the artist had put into the people s faces. Mrs. Seal sat all the time perfectly grave. Directly he had done speaking she burst out: "But surely, if you care about the welfare of your sex at all, you must wish them to have the vote?" "I never said I didn t wish them to have the vote," Katharine protested. "Then why aren t you a member of our society?" Mrs. Seal demanded. Katharine stirred her spoon round and round, stared into the swirl of the tea, and remained silent. Mr. Clacton, meanwhile, framed a question which, after a moment s hesitation, he put to Katharine. "Are you in any way related, I wonder, to the poet Alardyce? His daughter, I believe, married a Mr. Hilbery." "Yes; I m the poet s granddaughter," said Katharine, with a little sigh, after a pause; and for a moment they were all silent. "The poet s granddaughter!" Mrs. Seal repeated, half to herself, with a shake of her head, as if that explained what was otherwise inexplicable. The light kindled in Mr. Clacton s eye. "Ah, indeed. That interests me very much," he said. "I owe a great debt to your grandfather, Miss Hilbery. At one time I could have repeated the greater part of him by heart. But one gets out of the way of reading poetry, unfortunately. You don t remember him, I suppose?" A sharp rap at the door made Katharine s answer inaudible. Mrs. Seal looked up with renewed hope in her eyes, and exclaiming: "The proofs at last!" ran to open the door. "Oh, it s only Mr. Denham!" she cried, without any attempt to conceal her disappointment. Ralph, Katharine supposed, was a frequent visitor, for the only person he thought it necessary to greet was herself, and Mary at once explained the strange fact of her being there by saying: "Katharine has come to see how one runs an office." Ralph felt himself stiffen uncomfortably, as he said: "I hope Mary hasn t persuaded you that she knows how to run an office?" "What, doesn t she?" said Katharine, looking from one to the other. At these remarks Mrs. Seal began to exhibit signs of discomposure, which displayed themselves by a tossing movement of her head, and, as Ralph took a letter from his pocket, and placed his finger upon a certain sentence, she forestalled him by exclaiming in confusion: "Now, I know what you re going to say, Mr. Denham! But it was the day Kit Markham was here, and she upsets one so with her wonderful vitality, always thinking of something new that we ought to be doing and aren t and I was conscious at the time that my dates were mixed. It had nothing to do with Mary at all, I assure you." "My dear Sally, don t apologize," said Mary, laughing. "Men are such pedants they don t know what things matter, and what things don t." "Now, Denham, speak up for our sex," said Mr. Clacton in a jocular manner, indeed, but like most insignificant men he was very quick to resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For if I were to tell you what I know of back-stairs intrigue, and what can be done by the power of the purse, you wouldn t credit me, Mr. Denham, you wouldn t, indeed. Which is why I feel that the only work for my father s daughter for he was one of the pioneers, Mr. Denham, and on his tombstone I had that verse from the Psalms put, about the sowers and the seed.... And what wouldn t I give that he should be alive now, seeing what we re going to see" but reflecting that the glories of the future depended in part upon the activity of her typewriter, she bobbed her head, and hurried back to the seclusion of her little room, from which immediately issued sounds of enthusiastic, but obviously erratic, composition. Mary made it clear at once, by starting a fresh topic of general interest, that though she saw the humor of her colleague, she did not intend to have her laughed at. "The standard of morality seems to me frightfully low," she observed reflectively, pouring out a second cup of tea, "especially among women who aren t well educated. They don t see that small things matter, and that s where the leakage begins, and then we find ourselves in difficulties I very nearly lost my temper yesterday," she went on, looking at Ralph with a little smile, as though he knew what happened when she lost her temper. "It makes me very angry when people tell me lies doesn t it make you angry?" she asked Katharine. "But considering that every one tells lies," Katharine remarked, looking about the room to see where she had put down her umbrella and her parcel, for there was an intimacy in the way in which Mary and Ralph addressed each other which made her wish to leave them. Mary, on the other hand, was anxious, superficially at least, that Katharine should stay and so fortify her in her determination not to be in love with Ralph. Ralph, while lifting his cup from his lips to the table, had made up his mind that if Miss Hilbery left, he would go with her. "I don t think that I tell lies, and I don t think that Ralph tells lies, do you, Ralph?" Mary continued. Katharine laughed, with more gayety, as it seemed to Mary, than she could properly account for. What was she laughing at? At them, presumably. Katharine had risen, and was glancing hither and thither, at the presses and the cupboards, and all the machinery of the office, as if she included them all in her rather malicious amusement, which caused Mary to keep her eyes on her straightly and rather fiercely, as if she were a gay-plumed, mischievous bird, who might light on the topmost bough and pick off the ruddiest cherry, without any warning. Two women less like each other could scarcely be imagined, Ralph thought, looking from one to the other. Next moment, he too, rose, and nodding to Mary, as Katharine said good-bye, opened the door for her, and followed her out. Mary sat still and made no attempt to prevent them from going. For a second or two after the door had shut on them her eyes rested on the door with a straightforward fierceness in which, for a moment, a certain degree of bewilderment seemed to enter; but, after a brief hesitation, she put down her cup and proceeded to clear away the tea-things. The impulse which had driven Ralph to take this action was the result of a very swift little piece of reasoning, and thus, perhaps, was not quite so much of an impulse as it seemed. It passed through his mind that if he missed this chance of talking to Katharine, he would have to face an enraged ghost, when he was alone in his room again, demanding an explanation of his cowardly indecision. It was better, on the whole, to risk present discomfiture than to waste an evening bandying excuses and constructing impossible scenes with this uncompromising section of himself. For ever since he had visited the Hilberys he had been much at the mercy of a phantom Katharine, who came to him when he sat alone, and answered him as he would have her answer, and was always beside him to crown those varying triumphs which were transacted almost every night, in imaginary scenes, as he walked through the lamplit streets home from	eyes, and exclaiming: "The proofs at last!" ran to open the door. "Oh, it s only Mr. Denham!" she cried, without any attempt to conceal her disappointment. Ralph, Katharine supposed, was a frequent visitor, for the only person he thought it necessary to greet was herself, and Mary at once explained the strange fact of her being there by saying: "Katharine has come to see how one runs an office." Ralph felt himself stiffen uncomfortably, as he said: "I hope Mary hasn t persuaded you that she knows how to run an office?" "What, doesn t she?" said Katharine, looking from one to the other. At these remarks Mrs. Seal began to exhibit signs of discomposure, which displayed themselves by a tossing movement of her head, and, as Ralph took a letter from his pocket, and placed his finger upon a certain sentence, she forestalled him by exclaiming in confusion: "Now, I know what you re going to say, Mr. Denham! But it was the day Kit Markham was here, and she upsets one so with her wonderful vitality, always thinking of something new that we ought to be doing and aren t and I was conscious at the time that my dates were mixed. It had nothing to do with Mary at all, I assure you." "My dear Sally, don t apologize," said Mary, laughing. "Men are such pedants they don t know what things matter, and what things don t." "Now, Denham, speak up for our sex," said Mr. Clacton in a jocular manner, indeed, but like most insignificant men he was very quick to resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For if I were to tell you what I know of back-stairs intrigue, and what can be done by the power of the purse, you wouldn t credit me, Mr. Denham, you wouldn t, indeed. Which is why I feel that the only work for my father s daughter for he was one of the pioneers, Mr. Denham, and on his tombstone I had that verse from the Psalms put, about the sowers and the seed.... And what wouldn t I give that he should be alive now, seeing what we re going to see" but reflecting that the glories of the future depended in part upon the activity of her typewriter, she bobbed her head, and hurried back to the seclusion of her little room, from which immediately issued sounds of enthusiastic, but obviously erratic, composition. Mary made it clear at once, by starting a fresh topic of general interest, that though she saw the humor of her colleague, she did not intend to have her laughed at. "The standard of morality seems to me frightfully low," she observed reflectively, pouring out a second cup of tea, "especially among women who aren t well educated. They don t see that small things matter, and that s where the leakage begins, and then we find ourselves in difficulties I very nearly lost my temper yesterday," she went on, looking at Ralph with a little smile, as though he knew what happened when she lost her temper. "It makes me very angry when people tell me lies doesn t it make you angry?" she asked Katharine. "But considering that every one tells lies," Katharine remarked, looking about the room to see where she had put down her umbrella and her parcel, for there was an intimacy in the way in which Mary and Ralph addressed each other which made her wish to leave them. Mary, on the other hand, was anxious, superficially at least, that Katharine should stay and so fortify her in her determination not to be in love with Ralph. Ralph, while lifting his cup from his lips	Night And Day
"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."	Emma	you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her	real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am	sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No,"	told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little;	had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every	Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds. The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. CHAPTER III Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma." "True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax." Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question-- "She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart." Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's,	it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty. Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her. These were charming feelings--but not lasting. Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, "She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!" Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved. If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds. The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. CHAPTER III Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma." "True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax." Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question-- "She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart." Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's, said-- "It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished--but it is so little one can venture to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon--Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other pork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork--I think we had better send the leg--do not you think so, my dear?" "My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like." "That's right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome." "Emma," said Mr. Knightley presently, "I have a piece of news for you. You like news--and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will interest you." "News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?--why do you smile so?--where did you hear it?--at Randalls?" He had time only to say, "No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls," when the door was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest. Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syllable of communication could rest with him. "Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse--I come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be married." Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so completely surprized that she could not	all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. CHAPTER III Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb	Emma
"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."	Lucy	the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the	whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She	them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding	Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed	and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have	humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil." Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?" "I tore the thing up." "Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?" "Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose." "Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with the meat." Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. "So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance. "And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long." It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs. "Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done." "Nonsense!	had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song. She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew not why--wished that the trouble could have come at any other time. "Go and dress, dear; you'll be late." "All right, mother--" "Don't say" 'All right' "and stop. Go" ." She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?" "Not that I know of." "Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil." Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?" "I tore the thing up." "Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?" "Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose." "Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with the meat." Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. "So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance. "And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long." It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs. "Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done." "Nonsense! It can." "If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise." "Minnie can sleep with you." "I won't have her." "Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy." "Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes. "It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't want to make difficulties, but it really isn't fair on the maids to fill up the house so." Alas! "The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte." "No, I don't. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven't seen her lately, and don't realize how tiresome she can be, though so good. So please, mother, don't worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come." "Hear, hear!" said Cecil. Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: "This isn't very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are, and however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old." Cecil crumbled his bread. "I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike," put in Freddy. "She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right." "I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return." But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: "I can't help it, mother. I don't like Charlotte. I admit it's horrid of me." "From your own account, you told her as much." "Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried--" The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would	it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?" "Not that I know of." "Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil." Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?" "I tore the thing up." "Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?" "Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose." "Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with the meat." Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. "So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance. "And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long." It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs. "Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done." "Nonsense! It can." "If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise." "Minnie can sleep with you." "I won't have her." "Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy." "Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes. "It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't want to make difficulties, but it really isn't fair on the maids to fill up the house so." Alas! "The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte."	A Room With A View
said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.	No speaker	man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked	all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank	No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs.	rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange	"It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he	that." "Indeed." "Passionately." He laid his hand upon his own heart. "Then God help her!" He stamped impatiently. "Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be contented? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well." "Her duty!" cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable. "Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her." "To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you--" The words she would like to have said were too violent for her. "To look after the baby, certainly," said he. "The baby--?" She had forgotten it. "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?" "No," said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot and trod lightly on its stomach. Miss Abbott cried, "Oh, take care!" She was unaccustomed to this method of awakening the young. "He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time his own boots will be as large? And that he also--" "But ought you to treat him like that?" He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing, filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can come to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or the desire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exception who comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for ever. Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, could not comprehend it, though such a thing is more within the comprehension of women. And when Gino pointed first to himself and then to his baby and said "father-son," she still took it as a piece of nursery	"I have not come as a friend this time," she answered stiffly. "I am not likely, Signor Carella, to approve of anything you do." "Oh, Signorina!" He laughed, as if he found her piquant and amusing. "Surely you approve of marriage?" "Where there is love," said Miss Abbott, looking at him hard. His face had altered in the last year, but not for the worse, which was baffling. "Where there is love," said he, politely echoing the English view. Then he smiled on her, expecting congratulations. "Do I understand that you are proposing to marry again?" He nodded. "I forbid you, then!" He looked puzzled, but took it for some foreign banter, and laughed. "I forbid you!" repeated Miss Abbott, and all the indignation of her sex and her nationality went thrilling through the words. "But why?" He jumped up, frowning. His voice was squeaky and petulant, like that of a child who is suddenly forbidden a toy. "You have ruined one woman; I forbid you to ruin another. It is not a year since Lilia died. You pretended to me the other day that you loved her. It is a lie. You wanted her money. Has this woman money too?" "Why, yes!" he said irritably. "A little." "And I suppose you will say that you love her." "I shall not say it. It will be untrue. Now my poor wife--" He stopped, seeing that the comparison would involve him in difficulties. And indeed he had often found Lilia as agreeable as any one else. Miss Abbott was furious at this final insult to her dead acquaintance. She was glad that after all she could be so angry with the boy. She glowed and throbbed; her tongue moved nimbly. At the finish, if the real business of the day had been completed, she could have swept majestically from the house. But the baby still remained, asleep on a dirty rug. Gino was thoughtful, and stood scratching his head. He respected Miss Abbott. He wished that she would respect him. "So you do not advise me?" he said dolefully. "But why should it be a failure?" Miss Abbott tried to remember that he was really a child still--a child with the strength and the passions of a disreputable man. "How can it succeed," she said solemnly, "where there is no love?" "But she does love me! I forgot to tell you that." "Indeed." "Passionately." He laid his hand upon his own heart. "Then God help her!" He stamped impatiently. "Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be contented? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well." "Her duty!" cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable. "Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her." "To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you--" The words she would like to have said were too violent for her. "To look after the baby, certainly," said he. "The baby--?" She had forgotten it. "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?" "No," said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot and trod lightly on its stomach. Miss Abbott cried, "Oh, take care!" She was unaccustomed to this method of awakening the young. "He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time his own boots will be as large? And that he also--" "But ought you to treat him like that?" He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing, filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can come to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or the desire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exception who comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for ever. Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, could not comprehend it, though such a thing is more within the comprehension of women. And when Gino pointed first to himself and then to his baby and said "father-son," she still took it as a piece of nursery prattle, and smiled mechanically. The child, the first fruits, woke up and glared at her. Gino did not greet it, but continued the exposition of his policy. "This woman will do exactly what I tell her. She is fond of children. She is clean; she has a pleasant voice. She is not beautiful; I cannot pretend that to you for a moment. But she is what I require." The baby gave a piercing yell. "Oh, do take care!" begged Miss Abbott. "You are squeezing it." "It is nothing. If he cries silently then you may be frightened. He thinks I am going to wash him, and he is quite right." "Wash him!" she cried. "You? Here?" The homely piece of news seemed to shatter all her plans. She had spent a long half-hour in elaborate approaches, in high moral attacks; she had neither frightened her enemy nor made him angry, nor interfered with the least detail of his domestic life. "I had gone to the Farmacia," he continued, "and was sitting there comfortably, when suddenly I remembered that Perfetta had heated water an hour ago--over there, look, covered with a cushion. I came away at once, for really he must be washed. You must excuse me. I can put it off no longer." "I have wasted your time," she said feebly. He walked sternly to the loggia and drew from it a large earthenware bowl. It was dirty inside; he dusted it with a tablecloth. Then he fetched the hot water, which was in a copper pot. He poured it out. He added cold. He felt in his pocket and brought out a piece of soap. Then he took up the baby, and, holding his cigar between his teeth, began to unwrap it. Miss Abbott turned to go. "But why are you going? Excuse me if I wash him while we talk." "I have nothing more to say," said Miss Abbott. All she could do now was to find Philip, confess her miserable defeat, and bid him go in her stead and prosper better. She cursed her feebleness; she longed to expose it, without apologies or tears. "Oh, but stop a moment!" he cried. "You have not seen him yet." "I have seen as much as I want, thank you." The last wrapping slid off. He held out to her in his two hands a little kicking image of bronze.	Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot and trod lightly on its stomach. Miss Abbott cried, "Oh, take care!" She was unaccustomed to this method of awakening the young. "He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time his own boots will be as large? And that he also--" "But ought you to treat him like that?" He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing, filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can come to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or the desire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exception who comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for ever. Miss Abbott, for	Where Angels Fear To Tread
sobbed his sister.	No speaker	gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it	the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a	cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what	in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently,	"Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man	not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband. "Mrs Wimble!" cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman's arm excitedly; "you have brought some news about my son." "No," moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. "Went out tea-time, and never come back all night." "Yes, yes, we know that," said Uncle Josiah sternly; "but how did you know?" "Know, sir? I've been sitting up for him all this dreadful night." "What, for my nephew?" "No, sir, for my Jem." "Lindon--James Wimble!" said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. "Impossible! It can't be true." CHAPTER TEN. GONE! "Speak, woman!" cried Mrs Lavington hoarsely; and she	troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?" "Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?" "Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband. "Mrs Wimble!" cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman's arm excitedly; "you have brought some news about my son." "No," moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. "Went out tea-time, and never come back all night." "Yes, yes, we know that," said Uncle Josiah sternly; "but how did you know?" "Know, sir? I've been sitting up for him all this dreadful night." "What, for my nephew?" "No, sir, for my Jem." "Lindon--James Wimble!" said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. "Impossible! It can't be true." CHAPTER TEN. GONE! "Speak, woman!" cried Mrs Lavington hoarsely; and she shook little Sally by the arm. "What do you mean?" "I don't know, ma'am. I'm in such trouble," sobbed Sally. "I've been a very, very wicked girl--I mean woman. I was always finding fault, and scolding him." "Why?" asked Uncle Josiah sternly. "I don't know, sir." "But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband." "Yes, he's the best of husbands," sobbed Sally. "Then why did you scold him?" "Because I was so wicked, I suppose. I couldn't help it, sir." "But you think he has run away?" "Yes, sir; I'm sure of it. He said he would some day if I was so cruel, and that seemed to make me more cruel, and--and--he has gone." "It is impossible!" said Uncle Josiah. "He must have met with some accident." "No, sir, he has run away and left me. He said he would. I saw him go--out of the window, and he took a bundle with him, and--and--what shall I do? What shall I do?" "Took a bundle?" said Uncle Josiah, starting. "Yes, sir, and--and I wish I was dead." "Silence, you foolish little woman! How dare you wish such a thing? Stop; listen to what I say. Did my nephew Lindon come to the yard last night?" "No, sir; but him and my Jem were talking together for ever so long in the office, and I couldn't get Jem away." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle. "Please ask Master Don what my Jem said." "Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?" said Mrs Lavington, piteously. "What? Not been home?" cried Sally, sharply. "Then they're gone off together." Uncle Josiah drew a long breath. "That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone." "It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says," whispered Mrs Lavington; "pray--pray fetch them	door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband. "Mrs Wimble!" cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman's arm excitedly; "you have brought some news about my son." "No," moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. "Went out tea-time, and never come back all night." "Yes, yes, we know that," said Uncle Josiah sternly; "but how did you know?" "Know, sir? I've been sitting up for him all this dreadful night." "What, for my nephew?" "No, sir, for my Jem." "Lindon--James Wimble!" said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. "Impossible! It	Don Lavington
"Oh, that's it, is it?"	Jem Wimble	and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now,	say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I	advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard;	nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a	It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog. "Mas' Don, Mas' Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!" cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in. But even then Don responded	I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog. "Mas' Don, Mas' Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!" cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in. But even then Don responded to Jem's appeal, and ceased paddling, to make three or four steady strokes. "That's it! Brave heart! Well done, Mas' Don. We shall manage it yet. A long, steady stroke--that's it. Don't give up. You can do it; and when you're tired, I'll help you. Well done--well done. Hah!" Jem uttered a hoarse cry, and then his voice rose in a wild appeal for help, not for self, but for his brave young companion. "Boat! Boat!" he cried, as he heard Don, deaf to his entreaties, begin the wild paddling action again; and he passed his arm beneath his neck, to try and support him. But there was no reply to his wild hail. The boats were out of hearing, and the next minute the strangling water was bubbling about his lips, choking him as he breathed it in; and with the name of his wife on his lips, poor Jem caught Don in a firm grip with one hand, as he struck wildly out with the other. Four or five steady strokes, and then his arm seemed to lose its power, and his strokes were feeble. "Mas' Don," he groaned; "I did try hard; but it's all over. I'm	Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog. "Mas' Don, Mas' Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!" cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in. But even then Don responded to Jem's appeal, and ceased paddling, to make three or four steady strokes. "That's it! Brave heart! Well done, Mas' Don. We shall manage it yet. A long, steady stroke--that's it. Don't give up. You can do it; and when you're tired, I'll help you. Well done--well done. Hah!" Jem uttered a hoarse cry, and then his voice rose in a wild appeal for help, not for self, but for his brave young companion. "Boat! Boat!" he cried, as he heard Don, deaf to his entreaties, begin the wild paddling action again; and he passed his arm beneath his neck, to try and support him. But there was no reply to his wild hail. The boats were out of hearing, and the next minute the strangling water was bubbling about his lips, choking him as he breathed it in; and with the name of his wife on his lips, poor Jem caught Don in a firm grip with one hand, as he struck wildly out with the other. Four or five steady strokes, and then his arm seemed to lose its power, and his strokes were feeble. "Mas' Don," he groaned; "I did try hard; but it's all over. I'm dead beat, too." CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. FRIENDLY ATTENTIONS. A peculiar pale light played and flashed from the surface of the black water which was being churned up by the desperate struggles of the drowning pair. It was as if myriads of tiny stars started into being where all was dark before, and went hurrying here and there, some to the surface, others deep down into the transparent purity of the sea. A minute before Jem Wimble had kept command of himself, and swam as a carefully tutored man keeps himself afloat; that minute passed, all teaching was forgotten in a weak, frantic struggle with the strangling water which closed over their heads. A few moments, during which the phosphorescent tiny creatures played here and there, and then once more the two helpless and nearly exhausted fugitives were beating the surface, which flashed and sent forth lambent rays of light. But it was not there alone that the phosphorescence of the sea was visible. About a hundred yards away there was what seemed to be a double line of pale gold liquid fire changing into bluish green, and between the lines of light something whose blackness was greater than the darkness of the sea or night. There was a dull low splashing, and at every splash the liquid fire seemed to fly. The double line of fire lengthened and sparkled, till it was as so much greenish golden foam reaching more and more toward where the drowning pair were struggling. Then came a low, growling, grinding sound, as if the long lines of light were made by the beating fins of the dark object, which was some habitant of the deep roused from slumbers by the light of the golden foam formed by those who drowned. And it rushed on and on to seize its prey, invisible before, but now plainly seen by the struggles and the resulting phosphorescent light. Long, low, and with its head raised high out of the water, horrent, grotesque and strange, the great sea monster glided along over the smooth sea. Full five-and-twenty fins aside made the water flash as it came on, and there was, as it were, a thin new-moon-like curve of light at its breast, while from its tail the sparkling phosphorescence spread widely as it was left behind. The low grumbling sound came again, but it was not heard by those drowning,	swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog. "Mas' Don, Mas' Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!" cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in. But even then Don responded to Jem's appeal, and ceased paddling, to make three or four steady strokes. "That's it! Brave heart! Well done, Mas' Don. We shall manage it yet. A long, steady stroke--that's it. Don't give up. You can do it; and when you're tired, I'll help you. Well done--well done. Hah!" Jem uttered a hoarse cry, and then his voice rose in a wild appeal for help, not for self, but for his brave young companion. "Boat! Boat!" he cried, as he heard Don, deaf to his entreaties, begin the wild paddling action again; and he passed his arm beneath his neck, to try and support him. But there was no reply to his wild hail. The boats were out of hearing, and the next minute the strangling water was bubbling about his lips, choking him as he breathed it in; and with the name of his wife on his lips, poor Jem caught Don in a firm grip with one hand, as he struck wildly out with the other. Four	Don Lavington
"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"	Cyril Fielding	swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we	me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's	be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was	his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no	the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare	us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask where the cable came from?" "Aden." "Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in court." "But she died on leaving Bombay," broke in Adela. "She was dead when they called her name this morning. She must have been buried at sea." Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted from his brutality, which had shocked Fielding more than anyone else. He remained silent while the details of Miss Quested's occupation of the College were arranged, merely remarking to Ronny, "It is clearly to be understood, sir, that neither Mr. Fielding nor any of us are responsible for this lady's safety at Government College," to which Ronny agreed. After that, he watched the semi-chivalrous behavings of the three English with quiet amusement; he thought Fielding had been incredibly silly and weak, and he was amazed by the younger people's want of proper pride. When they were driving out to Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accompanied them: "Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what sum Miss Quested ought to pay as compensation?" "Twenty thousand rupees." No more was then said,	without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer." When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly: "Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask where the cable came from?" "Aden." "Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in court." "But she died on leaving Bombay," broke in Adela. "She was dead when they called her name this morning. She must have been buried at sea." Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted from his brutality, which had shocked Fielding more than anyone else. He remained silent while the details of Miss Quested's occupation of the College were arranged, merely remarking to Ronny, "It is clearly to be understood, sir, that neither Mr. Fielding nor any of us are responsible for this lady's safety at Government College," to which Ronny agreed. After that, he watched the semi-chivalrous behavings of the three English with quiet amusement; he thought Fielding had been incredibly silly and weak, and he was amazed by the younger people's want of proper pride. When they were driving out to Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accompanied them: "Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what sum Miss Quested ought to pay as compensation?" "Twenty thousand rupees." No more was then said, but the remark horrified Fielding. He couldn't bear to think of the queer honest girl losing her money and possibly her young man too. She advanced into his consciousness suddenly. And, fatigued by the merciless and enormous day, he lost his usual sane view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist not in ourselves, but in terms of each others' minds a notion for which logic offers no support and which had attacked him only once before, the evening after the catastrophe, when from the verandah of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole night sky. CHAPTER XXVII "Aziz, are you awake?" "No, so let us have a talk; let us dream plans for the future." "I am useless at dreaming." "Good night then, dear fellow." The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too. "Are you content with our day's work, Cyril?" the voice on his left continued. "Are you?" "Except that I ate too much." How is stomach, how head?' "I say, Panna Lal and Callendar 'll get the sack." "There'll be a general move at Chandrapore." "And you'll get promotion." "They can't well move me down, whatever their feelings." "In any case we spend our holidays together, and visit Kashmir, possibly Persia, for I shall have plenty of money. Paid to me on account of the injury sustained by my character," he explained with cynical calm. "While with me you shall never spend a single pie. This is what I have always wished, and as the result of my misfortunes it has come." "You have won a great victory . . ." began Fielding. "I know, my dear chap, I know; your voice need not become so solemn and anxious. I know what you are going to say next: Let, oh let Miss Quested off paying, so that the English may say," Here is a native who has actually behaved like a gentleman; if it was not for his black face we would almost allow him to join our club.' "The approval of	of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask	A Passage To India
he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.	No speaker	a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back	said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite	for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some	and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier! never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable! never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price,"	do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates." "Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her" "; adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him much too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier! never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable! never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal of events if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss	and indifferent as civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have him speak to her. Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits. Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, "So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!" "Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with them." "And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off." "Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates." "Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her" "; adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him much too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier! never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable! never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal of events if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic at that season." He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone quite far enough." She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few moments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the candid result of conviction, "I believe you are right. It was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy." And then turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not advance in any. Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now observed, "Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to	barouche, I protest! There are his own two men pushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him." There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very differently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room. In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite of her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company, and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in which she was not required to take any part there was so much to be said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of the open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have him speak to her. Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits. Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, "So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!" "Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with them." "And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off." "Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates." "Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her" "; adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him much too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier! never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable! never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal of events if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic at that season." He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone quite far enough." She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few moments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the candid result of conviction, "I believe you are right. It was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy." And then turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not advance in any. Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now observed, "Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to discuss." "The most interesting in the world," replied her brother "how to make money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I find he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice." His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, "Nothing amuses me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance of those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to seven hundred a year." "Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative. Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly well off for a cadet of even a baronet's family. By the time he is four or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for it." Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them. "Bertram," said Henry Crawford, "I shall make a point of coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time as I shall do not to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know,	occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, "So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!" "Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with them." "And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off." "Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates." "Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her" "; adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him much too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier! never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable! never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal of events if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic at that season." He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all	Mansfield Park
replied Monks.	No speaker	inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the	that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have	sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy	again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the	reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery	confounded hole." Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs. "We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear," said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; "and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs. There!" With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if if" said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, "it's not likely, mind, but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead" "It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a	and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way. He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived. "Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear. "Ah!" said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that" "Yes!" interrupted the stranger. "I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?" "On your business, my dear," replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. "On your business all night." "Oh, of course!" said the stranger, with a sneer. "Well; and what's come of it?" "Nothing good," said the Jew. "Nothing bad, I hope?" said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion. The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him. Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light. "It's as dark as the grave," said the man, groping forward a few steps. "Make haste!" "Shut the door," whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise. "That wasn't my doing," said the other man, feeling his way. "The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole." Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs. "We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear," said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; "and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs. There!" With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if if" said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, "it's not likely, mind, but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead" "It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?" "What!" cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. "Where?" "Yonder!" replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. "The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!" The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house. "It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion. "I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away." The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death. "What do you think now?" said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. "Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!" As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference. This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o'clock. And so the amiable couple parted. CHAPTER XXVII. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author	open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got	Oliver Twist
said the stranger.	No speaker	waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just	this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left	carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down,	was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood. "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky. "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the	towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field. Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood. "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky. "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge, which let in suddenly the light of a white road. As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane. Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of	off it. He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, right itself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun. The man called Gogol, who had hardly spoken through all their weary travels, suddenly threw up his hands like a lost spirit. "He is dead!" he cried. "And now I know he was my friend my friend in the dark!" "Dead!" snorted the Secretary. "You will not find him dead easily. If he has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a colt rolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun." "Clashing his hoofs," said the Professor. "The colts do, and so did Pan." "Pan again!" said Dr. Bull irritably. "You seem to think Pan is everything." "So he is," said the Professor, "in Greek. He means everything." "Don't forget," said the Secretary, looking down, "that he also means Panic." Syme had stood without hearing any of the exclamations. "It fell over there," he said shortly. "Let us follow it!" Then he added with an indescribable gesture "Oh, if he has cheated us all by getting killed! It would be like one of his larks." He strode off towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field. Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood. "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky. "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge, which let in suddenly the light of a white road. As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane. Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of a gentleman, but rather to the officials and ambassadors of a great king. There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of the tattered and miserable band. All the attendants (as if in court-dress) wore swords, and as each man crawled into his carriage they drew them, and saluted with a sudden blaze of steel. "What can it all mean?" asked Bull of Syme as they separated. "Is this another joke of Sunday's?" "I don't know," said Syme as he sank wearily back in the cushions of his carriage; "but if it is, it's one of the jokes you talk about. It's a good-natured one." The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not one had carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure of comfort. They had all become inured to things going roughly; but things suddenly going smoothly swamped them. They could not even feebly imagine what the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that they were carriages, and carriages with cushions. They could not conceive who the old man was who had led them; but it was quite enough that he had certainly led them to the	grey-clad shoulders that I had seen from behind. But when I saw him from behind I was certain he was an animal, and when I saw him in front I knew he was a god." "Pan," said the Professor dreamily, "was a god and an animal." "Then, and again and always," went on Syme like a man talking to himself, "that has been for me the mystery of Sunday, and it is also the mystery of the world. When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest. Bad is so bad, that we cannot but think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain that evil could be explained. But the whole came to a kind of crest yesterday when I raced Sunday for the cab, and was just behind him all the way." "Had you time for thinking then?" asked Ratcliffe. "Time," replied Syme, "for one outrageous thought. I was suddenly possessed with the idea that the blind, blank back of his head really was his face an awful, eyeless face staring at me! And I fancied that the figure running in front of me was really a figure running backwards, and dancing as he ran." "Horrible!" said Dr. Bull, and shuddered. "Horrible is not the word," said Syme. "It was exactly the worst instant of my life. And yet ten minutes afterwards, when he put his head out of the cab and made a grimace like a gargoyle, I knew that he was only like a father playing hide-and-seek with his children." "It is a long game," said the Secretary, and frowned at his broken boots. "Listen to me," cried Syme with extraordinary emphasis. "Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front" "Look!" cried out Bull clamorously, "the balloon is coming down!" There was no need to cry out to Syme, who had never taken his eyes off it. He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, right itself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun. The man called Gogol, who had hardly spoken through all their weary travels, suddenly threw up his hands like a lost spirit. "He is dead!" he cried. "And now I know he was my friend my friend in the dark!" "Dead!" snorted the Secretary. "You will not find him dead easily. If he has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a colt rolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun." "Clashing his hoofs," said the Professor. "The colts do, and so did Pan." "Pan again!" said Dr. Bull irritably. "You seem to think Pan is everything." "So he is," said the Professor, "in Greek. He means everything." "Don't forget," said the Secretary, looking down, "that he also means Panic." Syme had stood without hearing any of the exclamations. "It fell over there," he said shortly. "Let us follow it!" Then he added with an indescribable gesture "Oh, if he has cheated us all by getting killed! It would be like one of his larks." He strode off towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field. Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood. "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky. "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge, which let in suddenly the light of a white road. As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane. Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of a gentleman, but rather to the officials and ambassadors of a great king. There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of the tattered and miserable band. All the attendants (as if in court-dress) wore swords, and as each man crawled into his carriage they drew them, and saluted with a sudden blaze of steel. "What can it all mean?" asked Bull of Syme as they separated. "Is this another joke of Sunday's?" "I don't know," said Syme as he sank wearily back in the cushions of his carriage; "but if it is, it's one of the jokes you talk about. It's a good-natured one." The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not one had carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure of comfort. They had all become inured to things going roughly; but things suddenly going smoothly swamped them. They could not even feebly imagine what the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that they were carriages, and carriages with cushions. They could not conceive who the old man was who had led them; but it was quite enough that he had certainly led them to the carriages. Syme drove through a drifting darkness of trees in utter abandonment. It was typical of him that while he had carried his bearded chin forward fiercely so long as anything could be done, when the whole business was taken out of his hands he fell back on the cushions in a frank collapse. Very gradually and very vaguely he realised into what rich roads the carriage was carrying him. He saw that they passed the stone gates of what might have been a park, that they began gradually to climb a hill which, while wooded on both sides, was somewhat more orderly than a forest. Then there began to grow upon him, as upon a man slowly waking from a healthy sleep, a pleasure in everything. He felt that the hedges were what hedges should be, living walls; that a hedge is like a human army, disciplined, but all the more alive. He saw high elms behind the hedges, and vaguely thought how happy boys would be climbing there. Then his carriage took a turn of the path, and he saw suddenly and quietly, like a long, low, sunset cloud, a long, low house, mellow in the mild light of sunset. All the six friends compared notes afterwards and quarrelled; but they all agreed that in some unaccountable way the place reminded them of their boyhood. It was either this elm-top or that crooked path, it was either this scrap of orchard or that shape of a window; but each man of them declared that he could remember this place before he could remember his mother. When the carriages eventually rolled up to a large, low, cavernous gateway, another man in the same uniform, but wearing a silver star on the grey breast of his coat, came out to meet them. This impressive person said to the bewildered Syme "Refreshments are provided for you in your room." Syme, under the influence of the same mesmeric sleep of amazement, went up the large oaken stairs after the respectful attendant. He entered a splendid suite of apartments that seemed to be designed specially for him. He walked up to a long mirror with the ordinary instinct of his class, to pull his tie straight or to smooth his hair; and there he saw the frightful figure that he was blood running down his face from where the bough had struck him,	he was only like a father playing hide-and-seek with his children." "It is a long game," said the Secretary, and frowned at his broken boots. "Listen to me," cried Syme with extraordinary emphasis. "Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front" "Look!" cried out Bull clamorously, "the balloon is coming down!" There was no need to cry out to Syme, who had never taken his eyes off it. He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, right itself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun. The man called Gogol, who had hardly spoken through all their weary travels, suddenly threw up his hands like a lost spirit. "He is dead!" he cried. "And now I know he was my friend my friend in the dark!" "Dead!" snorted the Secretary. "You will not find him dead easily. If he has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a colt rolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun." "Clashing his hoofs," said the Professor. "The colts do, and so did Pan." "Pan again!" said Dr. Bull irritably. "You seem to think Pan is everything." "So he is," said the Professor, "in Greek. He means everything." "Don't forget," said the Secretary, looking down, "that he also means Panic." Syme had stood without hearing any of the exclamations. "It fell over there," he said shortly. "Let us follow it!" Then he added with an indescribable gesture "Oh, if he has cheated us all by getting killed! It would be like one of his larks." He strode off towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field. Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood. "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky. "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge, which let in suddenly the light of a white road. As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane. Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of a gentleman, but rather to the officials and ambassadors of a great king. There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of the tattered and miserable band. All the attendants (as if in court-dress) wore swords, and as each man crawled into his carriage they drew them, and saluted with a sudden blaze of steel. "What can it all mean?" asked Bull of Syme as they separated. "Is this another joke of Sunday's?" "I don't know," said Syme as he sank wearily back in the cushions of his carriage; "but if it is, it's one of the jokes you talk about. It's a good-natured one." The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not one had carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure of comfort. They had all become inured to things going roughly; but things suddenly going smoothly swamped them. They could not even feebly imagine what the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that they were carriages, and carriages with cushions. They could not conceive who the old man was who had led them;	The Man Who Was Thursday
"In what way?"	Cecil	expecting that she would be."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>Conversation had become agreeable to	either, but I kept on expecting that she would be."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing	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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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	mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad." 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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." 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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." 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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." 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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is	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?" "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." 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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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	A Room With A View
"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."	Brett Ashley	he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They	wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next	pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest	"I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and	looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. "Nothing until the fifth." "What's this?" There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. "They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in	or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. "Nothing until the fifth." "What's this?" There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. "They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. "I would advise you gentlemen to get some sandwiches. All the places for the first four services were reserved at the office of the company." "You'll go a long way, brother," Bill said to him in English. "I suppose if I'd given you five francs you would have advised us to jump off the train." "_Comment?_" "Go to hell!" said Bill. "Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine. You tell him, Jake." "And send it up to the next car." I described where we were. In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son. "I suppose you're Americans, aren't you?" the man asked. "Having a good trip?" "Wonderful," said Bill. "That's what you want to do. Travel while you're young. Mother and I always wanted to get over, but we had to wait a while." "You could have come over ten years ago, if you'd wanted to," the wife said. "What you always said was:" 'See America first!' "I will say we've seen a good deal, take it one way and another." "Say, there's plenty of Americans on this train," the husband said. "They've got seven cars of	Bill. "You can't blame him such a hell of a lot." CHAPTER 9 The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after the fight I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time, he said, bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when I came down. That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people." "He's a good chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know." "You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. "Nothing until the fifth." "What's this?" There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. "They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. "I would advise you gentlemen to get some sandwiches. All the places for the first four services were reserved at the office of the company." "You'll go a long way, brother," Bill said to him in English. "I suppose if I'd given you five francs you would have advised us to jump off the train." "_Comment?_" "Go to hell!" said Bill. "Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine. You tell him, Jake." "And send it up to the next car." I described where we were. In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son. "I suppose you're Americans, aren't you?" the man asked. "Having a good trip?" "Wonderful," said Bill. "That's what you want to do. Travel while you're young. Mother and I always wanted to get over, but we had to wait a while." "You could have come over ten years ago, if you'd wanted to," the wife said. "What you always said was:" 'See America first!' "I will say we've seen a good deal, take it one way and another." "Say, there's plenty of Americans on this train," the husband said. "They've got seven cars of them from Dayton, Ohio. They've been on a pilgrimage to Rome, and now they're going down to Biarritz and Lourdes." "So, that's what they are. Pilgrims. Goddam Puritans," Bill said. "What part of the States you boys from?" "Kansas City," I said. "He's from Chicago." "You both going to Biarritz?" "No. We're going fishing in Spain." "Well, I never cared for it, myself. There's plenty that do out where I come from, though. We got some of the best fishing in the State of Montana. I've been out with the boys, but I never cared for it any." "Mighty little fishing you did on them trips," his wife said. He winked at us. "You know how the ladies are. If there's a jug goes along, or a case of beer, they think it's hell and damnation." "That's the way men are," his wife said to us. She smoothed her comfortable lap. "I voted against prohibition to please him, and because I like a little beer in the house, and then he talks that way. It's a wonder they ever find any one to marry them." "Say," said Bill, "do you know that gang of Pilgrim Fathers have cornered the dining-car until half past three this afternoon?" "How do you mean? They can't do a thing like that." "You try and get seats." "Well, mother, it looks as though we better go back and get another breakfast." She stood up and straightened her dress. "Will you boys keep an eye on our things? Come on, Hubert." They all three went up to the wagon restaurant. A little while after they were gone a steward went through announcing the first service, and pilgrims, with their priests, commenced filing down the corridor. Our friend and his family did not come back. A waiter passed in the corridor with our sandwiches and the bottle of Chablis, and we called him in. "You're going to work to-day," I said. He nodded his head. "They start now, at ten-thirty." "When do we eat?" "Huh! When do I eat?" He left two glasses for the bottle, and we paid him for the sandwiches and tipped him. "I'll get the plates," he said, "or bring them with you." We ate the sandwiches and drank the Chablis and watched the country out of the window. The grain was just beginning to ripen and the fields were full of poppies.	the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. "Nothing until the fifth." "What's this?" There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. "They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. "I would advise you gentlemen to get some sandwiches. All the places for the first four services were reserved at the office of the company." "You'll go a long way, brother," Bill said to him in English. "I suppose if I'd given you five francs you would have advised us to jump off the train." "_Comment?_" "Go to hell!" said Bill. "Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine. You tell him, Jake." "And send it up to the next car." I described where we were. In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son. "I suppose you're Americans, aren't you?" the man asked. "Having a good trip?" "Wonderful," said Bill. "That's what you want to do. Travel while you're young. Mother and I always wanted to get over, but we had to wait a while." "You could have come over ten years ago, if you'd wanted to," the wife said. "What you always said was:" 'See America first!' "I will say we've seen a good deal, take it one way and another." "Say, there's plenty of Americans on this train," the husband said. "They've got seven cars of them from Dayton, Ohio. They've been on a pilgrimage to Rome, and now they're going down to Biarritz and Lourdes." "So, that's what they are. Pilgrims. Goddam Puritans," Bill said. "What part of the States you boys from?" "Kansas City," I said. "He's from Chicago." "You both going to Biarritz?" "No. We're going fishing in Spain." "Well, I never cared for it, myself. There's plenty that do out where I come from, though. We got some of the best fishing in the State of Montana. I've been out with the boys, but I never cared for it any." "Mighty little fishing you did on them trips," his wife said. He winked at us. "You know how the ladies	The Sun Also Rises
"It's always one thing after another,"	Mrs. Augusta Welland	family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in	voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts	her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been	sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he	lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to old Catherine's that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared, since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual in following up my case or your mother's?" It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear, how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden whim to	curiosity about her neighbours, had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent. Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored; and all his wife's efforts to represent him as a man of forceful character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only "chosen") had been met with a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as a valetudinarian now made him an object of engrossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued an imperial summons to him to come and compare diets as soon as his temperature permitted; for old Catherine was now the first to recognise that one could not be too careful about temperatures. Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska's summons a telegram announced that she would arrive from Washington on the evening of the following day. At the Wellands', where the Newland Archers chanced to be lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to old Catherine's that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared, since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual in following up my case or your mother's?" It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear, how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden whim to see her, when there are half a dozen other grandchildren that she might have asked for. But we must never forget that Mamma, in spite of her wonderful vitality, is a very old woman." Mr. Welland's brow remained clouded, and it was evident that his perturbed imagination had fastened at once on this last remark. "Yes: your mother's a very old woman; and for all we know Bencomb may not be as successful with very old people. As you say, my dear, it's always one thing after another; and in another ten or fifteen years I suppose I shall have the pleasing duty of looking about for a new doctor. It's always better to make such a change before it's absolutely necessary." And having arrived at this Spartan decision Mr. Welland firmly took up his fork. "But all the while," Mrs. Welland began again, as she rose from the luncheon-table, and led the way into the wilderness of purple satin and malachite known as the back drawing-room, "I don't see how Ellen's to be got here tomorrow evening; and I do like to have things settled for at least twenty-four hours ahead." Archer turned from the fascinated contemplation of a	one or another of the ruling clans, Beaufort's duplicity seemed doubly cynical. If Mrs. Beaufort had not taken the tone that such misfortunes (the word was her own) were "the test of friendship," compassion for her might have tempered the general indignation against her husband. As it was--and especially after the object of her nocturnal visit to Mrs. Manson Mingott had become known--her cynicism was held to exceed his; and she had not the excuse--nor her detractors the satisfaction--of pleading that she was "a foreigner." It was some comfort (to those whose securities were not in jeopardy) to be able to remind themselves that Beaufort WAS; but, after all, if a Dallas of South Carolina took his view of the case, and glibly talked of his soon being "on his feet again," the argument lost its edge, and there was nothing to do but to accept this awful evidence of the indissolubility of marriage. Society must manage to get on without the Beauforts, and there was an end of it--except indeed for such hapless victims of the disaster as Medora Manson, the poor old Miss Lannings, and certain other misguided ladies of good family who, if only they had listened to Mr. Henry van der Luyden ... "The best thing the Beauforts can do," said Mrs. Archer, summing it up as if she were pronouncing a diagnosis and prescribing a course of treatment, "is to go and live at Regina's little place in North Carolina. Beaufort has always kept a racing stable, and he had better breed trotting horses. I should say he had all the qualities of a successful horsedealer." Every one agreed with her, but no one condescended to enquire what the Beauforts really meant to do. The next day Mrs. Manson Mingott was much better: she recovered her voice sufficiently to give orders that no one should mention the Beauforts to her again, and asked--when Dr. Bencomb appeared--what in the world her family meant by making such a fuss about her health. "If people of my age WILL eat chicken-salad in the evening what are they to expect?" she enquired; and, the doctor having opportunely modified her dietary, the stroke was transformed into an attack of indigestion. But in spite of her firm tone old Catherine did not wholly recover her former attitude toward life. The growing remoteness of old age, though it had not diminished her curiosity about her neighbours, had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent. Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored; and all his wife's efforts to represent him as a man of forceful character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only "chosen") had been met with a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as a valetudinarian now made him an object of engrossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued an imperial summons to him to come and compare diets as soon as his temperature permitted; for old Catherine was now the first to recognise that one could not be too careful about temperatures. Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska's summons a telegram announced that she would arrive from Washington on the evening of the following day. At the Wellands', where the Newland Archers chanced to be lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to old Catherine's that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared, since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual in following up my case or your mother's?" It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear, how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden whim to see her, when there are half a dozen other grandchildren that she might have asked for. But we must never forget that Mamma, in spite of her wonderful vitality, is a very old woman." Mr. Welland's brow remained clouded, and it was evident that his perturbed imagination had fastened at once on this last remark. "Yes: your mother's a very old woman; and for all we know Bencomb may not be as successful with very old people. As you say, my dear, it's always one thing after another; and in another ten or fifteen years I suppose I shall have the pleasing duty of looking about for a new doctor. It's always better to make such a change before it's absolutely necessary." And having arrived at this Spartan decision Mr. Welland firmly took up his fork. "But all the while," Mrs. Welland began again, as she rose from the luncheon-table, and led the way into the wilderness of purple satin and malachite known as the back drawing-room, "I don't see how Ellen's to be got here tomorrow evening; and I do like to have things settled for at least twenty-four hours ahead." Archer turned from the fascinated contemplation of a small painting representing two Cardinals carousing, in an octagonal ebony frame set with medallions of onyx. "Shall I fetch her?" he proposed. "I can easily get away from the office in time to meet the brougham at the ferry, if May will send it there." His heart was beating excitedly as he spoke. Mrs. Welland heaved a sigh of gratitude, and May, who had moved away to the window, turned to shed on him a beam of approval. "So you see, Mamma, everything WILL be settled twenty-four hours in advance," she said, stooping over to kiss her mother's troubled forehead. May's brougham awaited her at the door, and she was to drive Archer to Union Square, where he could pick up a Broadway car to carry him to the office. As she settled herself in her corner she said: "I didn't want to worry Mamma by raising fresh obstacles; but how can you meet Ellen tomorrow, and bring her back to New York, when you're going to Washington?" "Oh, I'm not going," Archer answered. "Not going? Why, what's happened?" Her voice was as clear as a bell, and full of wifely solicitude. "The case is off--postponed." "Postponed? How odd! I saw a note this morning from Mr. Letterblair to Mamma saying that he was going to Washington tomorrow for the big patent case that he was to argue before the Supreme Court. You said it was a patent case, didn't you?" "Well--that's it: the whole office can't go. Letterblair decided to go this morning." "Then it's NOT postponed?" she continued, with an insistence so unlike her that he felt the blood rising to his face, as if he were blushing for her unwonted lapse from all the traditional delicacies. "No: but my going is," he answered, cursing the unnecessary explanations that he had given when he had announced his intention of going to Washington, and wondering where he had read that clever liars give details, but that the cleverest do not. It did not hurt him half as much to tell May an untruth as to see her trying to pretend that she had not detected him. "I'm not going till later on: luckily for the convenience of your family," he continued, taking base refuge in sarcasm. As he spoke he felt that she was looking at him, and he turned his eyes to hers in order not to appear	go and live at Regina's little place in North Carolina. Beaufort has always kept a racing stable, and he had better breed trotting horses. I should say he had all the qualities of a successful horsedealer." Every one agreed with her, but no one condescended to enquire what the Beauforts really meant to do. The next day Mrs. Manson Mingott was much better: she recovered her voice sufficiently to give orders that no one should mention the Beauforts to her again, and asked--when Dr. Bencomb appeared--what in the world her family meant by making such a fuss about her health. "If people of my age WILL eat chicken-salad in the evening what are they to expect?" she enquired; and, the doctor having opportunely modified her dietary, the stroke was transformed into an attack of indigestion. But in spite of her firm tone old Catherine did not wholly recover her former attitude toward life. The growing remoteness of old age, though it had not diminished her curiosity about her neighbours, had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent. Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored; and all his wife's efforts to represent him as a man of forceful character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only "chosen") had been met with a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as a valetudinarian now made him an object of engrossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued an imperial summons to him to come and compare diets as soon as his temperature permitted; for old Catherine was now the first to recognise that one could not be too careful about temperatures. Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska's summons a telegram announced that she would arrive from Washington on the evening of the following day. At the Wellands', where the Newland Archers chanced to be lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to old Catherine's that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared, since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual in following up my case or your mother's?" It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear, how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden whim to	The Age Of Innocence
"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"	Catherine Morland	think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has	glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with	to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps	s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having	being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night	very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much laughter, that though Catherine s supporting opinion was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with	I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark or other about it." "No, indeed I should not." "Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by for the world." "Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my head." Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to James. Catherine s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of going to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to delay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room, where the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr. Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves from the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some time, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which, confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much laughter, that though Catherine s supporting opinion was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine s agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys. "Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine," whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment." Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind, when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney,	and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not	Northanger Abbey
he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.	No speaker	answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not	the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never	chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be	compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the	an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too	the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea." "But I don t want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his." "My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could	head to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar. "Why didn t you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face quite close to his. "I knew you were following him when you rushed out from Daly s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and he s as bad as bad." "He is not the man I am looking for," he answered, "and I want no man s money. I want a man s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly forty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not got his blood upon my hands." The woman gave a bitter laugh. "Little more than a boy!" she sneered. "Why, man, it s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me what I am." "You lie!" cried James Vane. She raised her hand up to heaven. "Before God I am telling the truth," she cried. "Before God?" "Strike me dumb if it ain t so. He is the worst one that comes here. They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It s nigh on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn t changed much since then. I have, though," she added, with a sickly leer. "You swear this?" "I swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "But don t give me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have some money for my night s lodging." He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished also. CHAPTER XVII. A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea." "But I don t want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his." "My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants	for a pretty face. It s nigh on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn t changed much since then. I have, though," she added, with a sickly leer. "You swear this?" "I swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "But don t give me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have some money for my night s lodging." He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished also. CHAPTER XVII. A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea." "But I don t want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his." "My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
"Ah,"	Mr. Giovanelli	countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for	you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid."	answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when	evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we	this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen	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 riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That s one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne s silence, she asked him why he didn t speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she asked. "It doesn t matter what I believed the other day," said Winterbourne, still laughing. "Well, what do you believe now?" "I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged or not!" He felt the young girl s pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli hurried her forward. "Quick! quick!" he said; "if we get in by midnight we are quite safe." Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed himself beside her. "Don t forget Eugenio s pills!" said Winterbourne as he lifted his hat. "I don t care," said Daisy in a little strange tone, "whether I have Roman fever or not!" Upon this the cab driver cracked his whip,	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 riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That s one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne s silence, she asked him why he didn t speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she asked. "It doesn t matter what I believed the other day," said Winterbourne, still laughing. "Well, what do you believe now?" "I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged or not!" He felt the young girl s pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli hurried her forward. "Quick! quick!" he said; "if we get in by midnight we are quite safe." Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed himself beside her. "Don t forget Eugenio s pills!" said Winterbourne as he lifted his hat. "I don t care," said Daisy in a little strange tone, "whether I have Roman fever or not!" Upon this the cab driver cracked his whip, and they rolled away over the desultory patches of the antique pavement. Winterbourne, to do him justice, as it were, mentioned to no one that he had encountered Miss Miller, at midnight, in the Colosseum with a gentleman; but nevertheless, a couple of days later, the fact of her having been there under these circumstances was known to every member of the little American circle, and commented accordingly. Winterbourne reflected that they had of course known it at the hotel, and that, after Daisy s return, there had been an exchange of remarks between the porter and the cab driver. But the young man was conscious, at the same moment, that it had ceased to be a matter of serious regret to him that the little American flirt should be "talked about" by low-minded menials. These people, a day or two later, had serious information to give: the little American flirt was alarmingly ill. Winterbourne, when the rumor came to him, immediately went to the hotel for more news. He found that two or three charitable friends had preceded him, and that they were being entertained in Mrs. Miller s salon by Randolph. "It s going round at night," said Randolph--" "that s what made her sick. She s always going round at night. I shouldn t think she d want to, it s so plaguy dark. You can t see anything here at night, except when there s a moon. In America there s always a moon!" Mrs. Miller was invisible; she was now, at least, giving her daughter the advantage of her society. It was evident that Daisy was dangerously ill. Winterbourne went often to ask for news of her, and once he saw Mrs. Miller, who, though deeply alarmed, was, rather to his surprise, perfectly composed, and, as it appeared, a most efficient and judicious nurse. She talked a good deal about Dr. Davis, but Winterbourne paid her the compliment of saying to himself that she was not, after all, such a monstrous goose. "Daisy spoke of you the other day," she said to him. "Half the time she doesn t know what she s saying, but that time I think she did. She gave me a message she told me to tell you. She told me to tell you that she never was engaged to that handsome Italian. I am sure I am very glad; Mr.	from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That s one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne s silence, she asked him why he didn t speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she	Daisy Miller
"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"	Sibyl Vane	her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale	speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that	If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But	memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you	grotesqueness to the words. The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich ..." "Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a	your acting. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money." The girl looked up and pouted. "Money, Mother?" she cried, "what does money matter? Love is more than money." "Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate." "He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me," said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. "I don t know how we could manage without him," answered the elder woman querulously. Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don t want him any more, Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love him," she said simply. "Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words. The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich ..." "Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined	times, and with joy. It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves. While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. He thought of his friend s young fiery-coloured life and wondered how it was all going to end. When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane. CHAPTER V. "Mother, Mother, I am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her face in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their dingy sitting-room contained. "I am so happy!" she repeated, "and you must be happy, too!" Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her daughter s head. "Happy!" she echoed, "I am only happy, Sibyl, when I see you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money." The girl looked up and pouted. "Money, Mother?" she cried, "what does money matter? Love is more than money." "Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate." "He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me," said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. "I don t know how we could manage without him," answered the elder woman querulously. Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don t want him any more, Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love him," she said simply. "Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words. The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich ..." "Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it." "You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London." "Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know anything about that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it." "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the park." "I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to the park." "Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. He hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but don t be too long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear her singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead. He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to the still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked. "Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "I hope you will be contented, James, with your sea-faring life," she said. "You must remember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a solicitor s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the country often dine with the best families." "I hate offices, and	but your acting. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money." The girl looked up and pouted. "Money, Mother?" she cried, "what does money matter? Love is more than money." "Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate." "He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me," said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. "I don t know how we could manage without him," answered the elder woman querulously. Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don t want him any more, Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love him," she said simply. "Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words. The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich ..." "Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it." "You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London." "Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know anything about that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it." "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
By that time the footsteps were at the door.	No speaker	gathering of flue and dust.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"What shall I say?" Don	bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want	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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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	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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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. "Don! Don, my boy!" came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted	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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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. "Don! Don, my boy!" 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	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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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. "Don! Don, my boy!" 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,"	their eyes met, and then averted hers; and from time to time his mother looked at him in so pitiful and imploring a manner that one moment he felt as if he were an utter scoundrel, and the next that he would do anything to take her in his arms and try and convince her that he was not so bad as she thought. It was a curious mental encounter between pride, obstinacy, and the better feelings of his nature; and unfortunately the former won, for soon after the meal was over he 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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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. "Don! Don, my boy!" 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	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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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. "Don! Don, my boy!" 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	Don Lavington
"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"	Anne Shirley	when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it will,"	the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it will," said Marilla. "Go to sleep	irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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	I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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	interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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	woods, and I'd look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. "You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want." "Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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	announced Anne. Marilla looked horrified astonishment. "Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Anne?" "?God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,'" responded Anne promptly and glibly. Marilla looked rather relieved. "So you do know something then, thank goodness! You're not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?" "Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words." ?Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.' "Isn't that grand? It has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it?" "We're not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little girl." "You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I've never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne." "Why, of course, if you want me to," assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it." "You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. "Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. "You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want." "Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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	decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne." "Why, of course, if you want me to," assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it." "You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. "Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. "You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want." "Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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,	Anne Of Green Gables
“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”	Tom	the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?”	an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business.	The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As	impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody	once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole	be the man smoking two cigarettes.” “We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes,	well. Wilson was so sick that he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he had just got some poor girl with child. “I’ll let you have that car,” said Tom. “I’ll send it over tomorrow afternoon.” That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad glare of afternoon, and now I turned my head as though I had been warned of something behind. Over the ash-heaps the giant eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg kept their vigil, but I perceived, after a moment, that other eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity from less than twenty feet away. In one of the windows over the garage the curtains had been moved aside a little, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a slowly developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar—it was an expression I had often seen on women’s faces, but on Myrtle Wilson’s face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easygoing blue coupé. “Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.” The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy signalled us to draw up alongside. “Where are we going?” she cried. “How about the movies?” “It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.” “We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was	was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easygoing blue coupé. “Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.” The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy signalled us to draw up alongside. “Where are we going?” she cried. “How about the movies?” “It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.” “We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat	The Great Gatsby
he said,	No speaker	shook his head. "No, Maurice,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"I can accept no more	welcome to it." The artist shook his head. "No, Maurice,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"I can accept no more from you. I have already	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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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	"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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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 the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business man, and I can attend to it without distaste." "But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life." "Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in your room?" "Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone two minutes." "Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?" "Hamilton was up yesterday."	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. "If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?" "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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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 the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business man, and I can attend to it without distaste." "But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life." "Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in your room?" "Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone two minutes." "Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?" "Hamilton was up yesterday." "Alone?" "Yes, for a while. His boy, Joe, shaved me, and Jack was up for a while brushing my clothes." "Then it lies between Jack and Joe?" Frank hesitated. "Neither one was left alone, though." "Then only Hamilton and Esterton have been alone for any time in your room since you left the key in your cabinet?" "Those are the only ones of whom I know anything. What others went in during the day, of course, I know nothing about. It could n't have been either Esterton or Hamilton." "Not Esterton, no." "And Hamilton is beyond suspicion." "No servant is beyond suspicion." "I would trust Hamilton anywhere," said Frank stoutly, "and with anything." "That 's noble of you, Frank, and I would have done the same, but we must remember that we are not in the old days now. The negroes are becoming less faithful and less contented, and more 's the pity, and a deal more ambitious, although I have never had any unfaithfulness on the part of Hamilton to complain of before." "Then do not condemn him now." "I shall not condemn any one until I have proof positive of his guilt or such clear circumstantial evidence that my reason is satisfied." "I do not believe that you will ever have that against old Hamilton." "This spirit of trust does you credit, Frank, and I very much hope that you may be right. But as soon as a negro like Hamilton learns the value of money and begins to earn it, at the same time he begins to covet some easy and rapid way of securing it. The old negro knew nothing of the value of money. When he stole, he stole hams and bacon and chickens. These were his immediate necessities and the things he valued. The present laughs at this tendency without knowing the cause. The present negro resents the laugh, and he has learned to value other things than those which satisfy his belly." Frank looked bored. "But pardon me for boring you. I know you want to go to bed. Go and leave everything to me." The young man reluctantly withdrew, and Maurice went to the telephone and rung up the police station. As Maurice had said, he was a plain, hard-headed business man, and it took very few words for him to put the Chief of Police in possession of the principal facts	"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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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 the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on	The Sport Of The Gods
"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."	Mr. Collins	the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully	of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as	I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By	than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every	But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies." "Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court." "Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced it to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with, "Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about	very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?" "The garden in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence." "I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?" "She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property." "Ah!" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?" "She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accomplishments, which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies." "Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court." "Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced it to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with, "Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town." Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said, "I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess;--for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin." Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon. CHAPTER XV. Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest	it all as his own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins, the excellence of its cookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour. CHAPTER XIV. During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the discourses, which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but _he_ had never seen any thing but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage; where she had perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets up stairs. "That is all very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?" "The garden in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence." "I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?" "She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property." "Ah!" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?" "She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accomplishments, which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies." "Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court." "Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced it to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with, "Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town." Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said, "I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess;--for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin." Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon. CHAPTER XV. Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up, had given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. Having now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own part. His plan did not vary on seeing them.--Miss Bennet's lovely face confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour's t?te-?-t?te with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.--" "As to her _younger_ daughters she could not take upon her to say--she could not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her _eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged." Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring	experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the discourses, which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but _he_ had never seen any thing but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage; where she had perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets up stairs. "That is all very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?" "The garden in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence." "I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?" "She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property." "Ah!" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?" "She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accomplishments, which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies." "Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court." "Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced it to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with, "Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town." Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said, "I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess;--for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin." Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon. CHAPTER XV. Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up, had given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. Having now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome	Pride And Prejudice
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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the	No speaker	be serious at Windy Corner?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on	lady retorted. "How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing 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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.	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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than	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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time,	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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had	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." 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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average.	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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far	A Room With A View
Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!	No speaker	you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried.	a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--"	Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother.	I' "George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no	good for both of you." To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer. "I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is." "And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale. "The old trouble; things won't fit." "What things?" "The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?" In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said: "'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I' "George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow. He said: "Miss Bartlett." "Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?" "In the nave." "I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She checked herself. "Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson.	a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlotte would object most strongly. "What are we to do with him?" he asked. "He comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves--like that; like the little child who ought to have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What did you say?" Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said: "Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them. By understanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will be good for both of you." To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer. "I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is." "And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale. "The old trouble; things won't fit." "What things?" "The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?" In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said: "'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I' "George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow. He said: "Miss Bartlett." "Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?" "In the nave." "I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She checked herself. "Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson. "Poor girl!" She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself. "Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it. Good-bye. Thank you both so much for all your kindness. Ah, yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church." She joined her cousin. Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the Letter "S" It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would	The feeling soon passed; it was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle. Born of silence and of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson returned, and she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her. "Were you snubbed?" asked his son tranquilly. "But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don't know how many people. They won't come back." "...full of innate sympathy...quickness to perceive good in others...vision of the brotherhood of man..." Scraps of the lecture on St. Francis came floating round the partition wall. "Don't let us spoil yours," he continued to Lucy. "Have you looked at those saints?" "Yes," said Lucy. "They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?" He did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it. George, rather to her relief, refused to move, and she and the old man wandered not unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things inside its walls. There were also beggars to avoid and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old lady with her dog, and here and there a priest modestly edging to his Mass through the groups of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half interested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he believed he had impaired, and then he anxiously watched his son. "Why will he look at that fresco?" he said uneasily. "I saw nothing in it." "I like Giotto," she replied. "It is so wonderful what they say about his tactile values. Though I like things like the Della Robbia babies better." "So you ought. A baby is worth a dozen saints. And my baby's worth the whole of Paradise, and as far as I can see he lives in Hell." Lucy again felt that this did not do. "In Hell," he repeated. "He's unhappy." "Oh, dear!" said Lucy. "How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive? What more is one to give him? And think how he has been brought up--free from all the superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the name of God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to grow up happy." She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish old man, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlotte would object most strongly. "What are we to do with him?" he asked. "He comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves--like that; like the little child who ought to have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What did you say?" Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said: "Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them. By understanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will be good for both of you." To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer. "I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is." "And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale. "The old trouble; things won't fit." "What things?" "The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?" In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said: "'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I' "George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow. He said: "Miss Bartlett." "Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?" "In the nave." "I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She checked herself. "Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson. "Poor girl!" She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself. "Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it. Good-bye. Thank you both so much for all your kindness. Ah, yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church." She joined her cousin. Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the Letter "S" It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions. Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never. She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at all like strings of pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate young lady, who performs so tragically on a summer's evening with the window open. Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped between love and hatred and jealousy, and all the furniture of the pictorial style. And she was tragical only in the sense that she was great, for she loved to play on the side of Victory. Victory of what and over what--that is more than the words of daily life can tell us. But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay; yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy had decided that they should triumph. A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her to do the thing she really liked, and after lunch she opened the little draped piano. A few people lingered round and praised her playing, but finding that she made no reply, dispersed to their rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep. She took no notice of Mr. Emerson looking for his son, nor of Miss Bartlett looking for Miss Lavish, nor of Miss Lavish looking for her cigarette-case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by the mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own; and by touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire. Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this illogical element in Miss Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion at Tunbridge Wells when he had discovered it. It was at one of those entertainments where the upper classes entertain the lower. The seats were filled with a respectful audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish, under the auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited, or imitated the drawing of a champagne cork. Among the promised items was "Miss Honeychurch. Piano. Beethoven," and Mr. Beebe was wondering whether it would be Adelaida, or the march of The Ruins of Athens, when his composure was disturbed by the opening bars	dozen saints. And my baby's worth the whole of Paradise, and as far as I can see he lives in Hell." Lucy again felt that this did not do. "In Hell," he repeated. "He's unhappy." "Oh, dear!" said Lucy. "How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive? What more is one to give him? And think how he has been brought up--free from all the superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the name of God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to grow up happy." She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish old man, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlotte would object most strongly. "What are we to do with him?" he asked. "He comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves--like that; like the little child who ought to have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What did you say?" Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said: "Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them. By understanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will be good for both of you." To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer. "I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is." "And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale. "The old trouble; things won't fit." "What things?" "The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?" In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said: "'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I' "George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow. He said: "Miss Bartlett." "Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?" "In the nave." "I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She checked herself. "Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson. "Poor girl!" She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself. "Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it. Good-bye. Thank you both so much for all your kindness. Ah, yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church." She joined her cousin. Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the Letter "S" It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions. Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never. She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at all like strings of pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate young lady, who performs so tragically on a summer's evening with the window open. Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped between love and hatred and jealousy, and all the furniture of the pictorial style. And she was tragical only in the sense that she was great, for she loved to play on the side of Victory. Victory of what and over what--that is more than the words of daily life can tell us. But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay; yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy had decided that they should triumph. A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her	A Room With A View
"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"	Edward Ferrars	their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do	sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite	to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I	wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has	have always set her down as a lively girl." "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." "But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward started "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor	their heirs." "No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it." "Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?" "Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them." "Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not at all altered." "She is only grown a little more grave than she was." "Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "_you_ need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself." "Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never was a part of _my_ character." "Nor do I think it a part of Marianne s," said Elinor; "I should hardly call her a lively girl she is very earnest, very eager in all she does sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation but she is not often really merry." "I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl." "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." "But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward started "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she	in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less." Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their future expenses at Combe Magna. "Hunters!" repeated Edward "but why must you have hunters? Every body does not hunt." Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do." "I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!" "Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness. "We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite of the insufficiency of wealth." "Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be! I wonder what I should do with it!" Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point. "I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs. Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help." "You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor, "and your difficulties will soon vanish." "What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," said Edward, "in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books! Thomson, Cowper, Scott she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes." "I love to be reminded of the past, Edward whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall it and you will never offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent some of it, at least my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books." "And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their heirs." "No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it." "Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?" "Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them." "Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not at all altered." "She is only grown a little more grave than she was." "Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "_you_ need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself." "Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never was a part of _my_ character." "Nor do I think it a part of Marianne s," said Elinor; "I should hardly call her a lively girl she is very earnest, very eager in all she does sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation but she is not often really merry." "I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl." "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." "But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward started "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out. "I am going into the village to see my horses," said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently." Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne s attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque." "I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you boast of it?" "I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses.	every new print of merit to be sent you and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books! Thomson, Cowper, Scott she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes." "I love to be reminded of the past, Edward whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall it and you will never offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent some of it, at least my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books." "And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their heirs." "No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it." "Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?" "Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them." "Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not at all altered." "She is only grown a little more grave than she was." "Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "_you_ need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself." "Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never was a part of _my_ character." "Nor do I think it a part of Marianne s," said Elinor; "I should hardly call her a lively girl she is very earnest, very eager in all she does sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation but she is not often really merry." "I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl." "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." "But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward started "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It	Sense And Sensibility
"At present?"	Winterbourne	me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said	t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed	in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t	at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight." "I don t believe it!" said Daisy. "Well!"	here, is very well worth seeing." "Well, if Daisy feels up to it--" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. "It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn t undertake." "Oh, I think she ll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?" Daisy s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight." "I don t believe it!" said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he	air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. Miller rejoined. "I have never been to that castle." "It is a pity you shouldn t go," said Winterbourne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition. And yet he was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter. "We ve been thinking ever so much about going," she pursued; "but it seems as if we couldn t. Of course Daisy--she wants to go round. But there s a lady here--I don t know her name--she says she shouldn t think we d want to go to see castles HERE; she should think we d want to wait till we got to Italy. It seems as if there would be so many there," continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. "Of course we only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in England," she presently added. "Ah yes! in England there are beautiful castles," said Winterbourne. "But Chillon here, is very well worth seeing." "Well, if Daisy feels up to it--" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. "It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn t undertake." "Oh, I think she ll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?" Daisy s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight." "I don t believe it!" said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select one of them." Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little, light laugh. "I like a gentleman to be formal!" she declared. "I assure you it s a formal offer." "I was bound I would make you say something," Daisy went on. "You see, it s not very difficult," said Winterbourne. "But I am afraid you are chaffing me." "I think not, sir," remarked Mrs. Miller very gently. "Do, then, let me give you a row," he said to the young girl. "It s quite lovely, the way you say that!" cried Daisy. "It will be still more lovely to do it." "Yes, it would be lovely!" said Daisy. But she made no movement to accompany him; she only stood there laughing. "I should think you had better find out what time it is," interposed her mother. "It is eleven o clock, madam," said a voice, with a foreign accent, out of the neighboring darkness; and Winterbourne, turning, perceived the florid personage who was in attendance	no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!" her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." "I think he s real tiresome," Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn t think you d want to talk against your own brother!" "Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. "He s only nine," urged Mrs. Miller. "Well, he wouldn t go to that castle," said the young girl. "I m going there with Mr. Winterbourne." To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy s mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure. "Yes," he began; "your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being her guide." Mrs. Miller s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. Miller rejoined. "I have never been to that castle." "It is a pity you shouldn t go," said Winterbourne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition. And yet he was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter. "We ve been thinking ever so much about going," she pursued; "but it seems as if we couldn t. Of course Daisy--she wants to go round. But there s a lady here--I don t know her name--she says she shouldn t think we d want to go to see castles HERE; she should think we d want to wait till we got to Italy. It seems as if there would be so many there," continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. "Of course we only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in England," she presently added. "Ah yes! in England there are beautiful castles," said Winterbourne. "But Chillon here, is very well worth seeing." "Well, if Daisy feels up to it--" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. "It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn t undertake." "Oh, I think she ll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?" Daisy s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight." "I don t believe it!" said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select one of them." Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little, light laugh. "I like a gentleman to be formal!" she declared. "I assure you it s a formal offer." "I was bound I would make you say something," Daisy went on. "You see, it s not very difficult," said Winterbourne. "But I am afraid you are chaffing me." "I think not, sir," remarked Mrs. Miller very gently. "Do, then, let me give you a row," he said to the young girl. "It s quite lovely, the way you say that!" cried Daisy. "It will be still more lovely to do it." "Yes, it would be lovely!" said Daisy. But she made no movement to accompany him; she only stood there laughing. "I should think you had better find out what time it is," interposed her mother. "It is eleven o clock, madam," said a voice, with a foreign accent, out of the neighboring darkness; and Winterbourne, turning, perceived the florid personage who was in attendance upon the two ladies. He had apparently just approached. "Oh, Eugenio," said Daisy, "I am going out in a boat!" Eugenio bowed. "At eleven o clock, mademoiselle?" "I am going with Mr. Winterbourne--this very minute." "Do tell her she can t," said Mrs. Miller to the courier. "I think you had better not go out in a boat, mademoiselle," Eugenio declared. Winterbourne wished to Heaven this pretty girl were not so familiar with her courier; but he said nothing. "I suppose you don t think it s proper!" Daisy exclaimed. "Eugenio doesn t think anything s proper." "I am at your service," said Winterbourne. "Does mademoiselle propose to go alone?" asked Eugenio of Mrs. Miller. "Oh, no; with this gentleman!" answered Daisy s mamma. The courier looked for a moment at Winterbourne--the latter thought he was smiling--and then, solemnly, with a bow, "As mademoiselle pleases!" he said. "Oh, I hoped you would make a fuss!" said Daisy. "I don t care to go now." "I myself shall make a fuss if you don t go," said Winterbourne. "That s all I want--a little fuss!" And the young girl began to laugh again. "Mr. Randolph has gone to bed!" the courier announced frigidly. "Oh, Daisy; now we can go!" said Mrs. Miller. Daisy turned away from Winterbourne, looking at him, smiling and fanning herself. "Good night," she said; "I hope you are disappointed, or disgusted, or something!" He looked at her, taking the hand she offered him. "I am puzzled," he answered. "Well, I hope it won t keep you awake!" she said very smartly; and, under the escort of the privileged Eugenio, the two ladies passed toward the house. Winterbourne stood looking after them; he was indeed puzzled. He lingered beside the lake for a quarter of an hour, turning over the mystery of the young girl s sudden familiarities and caprices. But the only very definite conclusion he came to was that he should enjoy deucedly "going off" with her somewhere. Two days afterward he went off with her to the Castle of Chillon. He waited for her in the large hall of the hotel, where the couriers, the servants, the foreign tourists, were lounging about and staring. It was not the place he should have chosen, but she had appointed it. She came tripping downstairs, buttoning her long gloves, squeezing her folded parasol against her pretty figure, dressed	be so many there," continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. "Of course we only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in England," she presently added. "Ah yes! in England there are beautiful castles," said Winterbourne. "But Chillon here, is very well worth seeing." "Well, if Daisy feels up to it--" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. "It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn t undertake." "Oh, I think she ll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?" Daisy s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight." "I don t believe it!" said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go	Daisy Miller
said Brett.	No speaker	to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for	much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the	people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said	to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She	damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle	at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two	"I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the caf and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep. When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details. "He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas," she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena.	says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to	The Sun Also Rises
cried Charles,	No speaker	her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done	Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name,	give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth,	Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any	this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested-- "Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found." Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain Benwick had been	catching hold of her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them. "Is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone. "Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, "for heaven's sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them." Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony-- "Oh God! her father and mother!" "A surgeon!" said Anne. He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only-- "True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested-- "Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found." Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked as Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was to be done. She must be taken to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon's arrival there. They would not listen to scruples: he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while Louisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them. Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer. The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror,	to their door, and then return and set off themselves. By all their calculations there was just time for this; but as they drew near the Cobb, there was such a general wish to walk along it once more, all were so inclined, and Louisa soon grew so determined, that the difference of a quarter of an hour, it was found, would be no difference at all; so with all the kind leave-taking, and all the kind interchange of invitations and promises which may be imagined, they parted from Captain and Mrs Harville at their own door, and still accompanied by Captain Benwick, who seemed to cling to them to the last, proceeded to make the proper adieus to the Cobb. Anne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her. Lord Byron's "dark blue seas" could not fail of being brought forward by their present view, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention was possible. It was soon drawn, perforce another way. There was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb pleasant for the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and all were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight, excepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth. In all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the sensation was delightful to her. The hardness of the pavement for her feet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however. She was safely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said, "I am determined I will:" he put out his hands; she was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless! There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death. The horror of the moment to all who stood around! Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence. "She is dead! she is dead!" screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them. "Is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone. "Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, "for heaven's sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them." Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony-- "Oh God! her father and mother!" "A surgeon!" said Anne. He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only-- "True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested-- "Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found." Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked as Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was to be done. She must be taken to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon's arrival there. They would not listen to scruples: he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while Louisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them. Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer. The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully. That he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a few hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may be conceived. The tone, the look, with which "Thank God!" was uttered by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight of him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded arms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of his soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them. Louisa's limbs had escaped. There was no injury but to the head. It now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be done, as to their general situation. They were now able to speak to each other and consult. That Louisa must remain where she was, however distressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such trouble, did not admit a doubt. Her removal was impossible. The Harvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all gratitude. They had looked forward and arranged everything before the others began to reflect. Captain Benwick must give up his room to them, and get another bed elsewhere; and the whole was settled. They were only concerned that the house could accommodate no more; and yet perhaps, by "putting the children away in the maid's room, or swinging a cot somewhere," they could hardly bear to think of not finding room for two or three besides, supposing they might wish to stay; though, with regard to any attendance on Miss Musgrove, there need not be the least uneasiness in leaving her to Mrs Harville's care entirely. Mrs Harville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid, who had lived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just such another. Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by day or night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of feeling irresistible. Charles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the	instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said, "I am determined I will:" he put out his hands; she was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless! There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death. The horror of the moment to all who stood around! Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence. "She is dead! she is dead!" screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them. "Is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone. "Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, "for heaven's sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them." Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony-- "Oh God! her father and mother!" "A surgeon!" said Anne. He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only-- "True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested-- "Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found." Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked as Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was to be done. She must be taken to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon's arrival there. They would not listen to scruples: he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while Louisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them. Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer. The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully. That he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a few hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may be conceived. The tone, the look, with which "Thank God!" was uttered by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the	Persuasion
asked the other.	No speaker	known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so	him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the	a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not	I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the	about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?"	dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the	ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her, scores of times." Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait? "Not long, mistress," replied the second woman, looking up into her face. "We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He'll be here soon enough for us all." "Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!" said the matron sternly. "You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?" "Often," answered the first woman. "But will never be again," added the second one; "that is, she'll never wake again but once and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!" "Long or short," said the matron, snappishly, "she won't find me here when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won't that's more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!" She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them. "Who's that?" she cried, in a hollow voice. "Hush, hush!" said one of the women, stooping over her. "Lie down, lie down!" "I'll never lie down again alive!" said the woman, struggling. "I _will_ tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear." She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners. "Turn them away," said the woman, drowsily; "make haste! make haste!" The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company. Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be "blowed," or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days. "That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that	effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a	Oliver Twist
“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”	Grace	‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you	valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in	to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of	I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as	it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her	of its danger.” Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say” --the young man saw it all-- “he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious integrity; but only to push it away. “Well, I don’t know whether the best lovers are, or ever were, the best buyers--but I feel to-day that they’re the best keepers.” The breath of his emphasis blew, as her eyes showed, on the girl’s dimmer fire. “It’s as if it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her another motion. She indicated the small landscape that Mr. Bender had, by Lady Sandgate’s report, rapidly studied and denounced. “For what do you take that little picture?” Hugh Crimble went over and looked. “Why, don’t you know? It’s a jolly little Vandermeer of Delft.” “It’s not a base imitation?” He looked again, but appeared at a loss. “An imitation of Vandermeer?” “Mr. Bender thinks of Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was	meant he had played some trick!” “I wish he had--he could then have been collared.” “Well,” Lady Grace peacefully smiled, “it’s no use his offering _us_ eight thousand--or eighteen or even eighty!” Hugh Crimble stared as at the odd superfluity of this reassurance, almost crude on exquisite lips and contradicting an imputation no one would have indecently made. “Gracious goodness, I hope not! The man surely doesn’t _suppose_ you’d traffic.” She might, while she still smiled at him, have been fairly enjoying the friendly horror she produced. “I don’t quite know what he supposes. But people _have_ trafficked; people do; people are trafficking all round.” “Ah,” Hugh Crimble cried, “that’s what deprives me of my rest and, as a lover of our vast and beneficent art-wealth, poisons my waking hours. That art-wealth is at the mercy of a leak there appears no means of stopping.” She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious. “Precious things are going out of our distracted country at a quicker rate than the very quickest--a century and more ago--of their ever coming in.” She was sharply struck, but was also unmistakably a person in whom stirred thought soon found connections and relations. “Well, I suppose our art-wealth came in--save for those awkward Elgin Marbles!--mainly by purchase too, didn’t it? We ourselves largely took it away from somewhere, didn’t we? We didn’t _grow_ it all.” “We grew some of the loveliest flowers--and on the whole to-day the most exposed.” He had been pulled up but for an instant. “Great Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshuas and Romneys and Sargents, great Turners and Constables and old Cromes and Brabazons, form, you’ll recognise, a vast garden in themselves. What have we ever for instance more successfully grown than your splendid ‘Duchess of Waterbridge’?” The girl showed herself ready at once to recognise under his eloquence anything he would. “Yes--it’s our Sir Joshua, I believe, that Mr. Bender has proclaimed himself particularly ‘after.’” It brought a cloud to her friend’s face. “Then he’ll be capable of anything.” “Of anything, no doubt, but of making my father capable--! And you haven’t at any rate,” she said, “so much as seen the picture.” “I beg your pardon--I saw it at the Guildhall three years ago; and am almost afraid of getting again, with a fresh sense of its beauty, a livelier sense of its danger.” Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say” --the young man saw it all-- “he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious integrity; but only to push it away. “Well, I don’t know whether the best lovers are, or ever were, the best buyers--but I feel to-day that they’re the best keepers.” The breath of his emphasis blew, as her eyes showed, on the girl’s dimmer fire. “It’s as if it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her another motion. She indicated the small landscape that Mr. Bender had, by Lady Sandgate’s report, rapidly studied and denounced. “For what do you take that little picture?” Hugh Crimble went over and looked. “Why, don’t you know? It’s a jolly little Vandermeer of Delft.” “It’s not a base imitation?” He looked again, but appeared at a loss. “An imitation of Vandermeer?” “Mr. Bender thinks of Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine. “To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.” Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I	afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say” --the young man saw it all-- “he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious integrity; but only to push it away. “Well, I don’t know whether the best lovers are, or ever were, the best buyers--but I feel to-day that they’re the best keepers.” The breath of his emphasis blew, as her eyes showed, on the girl’s dimmer fire. “It’s as if it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her another motion. She indicated the small landscape that Mr. Bender had, by Lady Sandgate’s report, rapidly studied and denounced. “For what do you take that little picture?” Hugh Crimble went over and looked. “Why, don’t you know? It’s a jolly little Vandermeer of Delft.” “It’s not a base imitation?” He looked again, but appeared at a loss. “An imitation of Vandermeer?” “Mr. Bender thinks of Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took	The Outcry
"I shan t dare do that,"	Cassandra Otway	what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re	to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are	Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you	forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century. "Who s coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture. "There s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it s at the climax; but to-morrow it ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe." She	very late. "May I sit and watch you?" Cassandra asked, shutting up her book. "I got ready on purpose." "Oh, you re ready, are you?" said Katharine, half turning in the midst of her operations, and looking at Cassandra, who sat, clasping her knees, on the edge of the bed. "There are people dining here," she said, taking in the effect of Cassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, the distinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its long tapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hair rose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century. "Who s coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture. "There s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it s at the climax; but to-morrow it ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe." She spoke disconnectedly, handling brush and comb, and pulling out the little drawers in her dressing-table and leaving them open. Cassandra, sitting on the bed behind her, saw the reflection of her cousin s face in the looking-glass. The face in the looking-glass was serious and intent, apparently occupied with other things besides the straightness of the parting which, however, was being driven as straight as a Roman road through the dark hair. Cassandra was impressed again by Katharine s maturity; and, as she enveloped herself in the blue dress which filled almost the whole of the long looking-glass with blue	the bed. In most houses this shelf is the ledge upon which the last relics of religious belief lodge themselves as if, late at night, in the heart of privacy, people, skeptical by day, find solace in sipping one draught of the old charm for such sorrows or perplexities as may steal from their hiding-places in the dark. But there was no hymn-book here. By their battered covers and enigmatical contents, Cassandra judged them to be old school-books belonging to Uncle Trevor, and piously, though eccentrically, preserved by his daughter. There was no end, she thought, to the unexpectedness of Katharine. She had once had a passion for geometry herself, and, curled upon Katharine s quilt, she became absorbed in trying to remember how far she had forgotten what she once knew. Katharine, coming in a little later, found her deep in this characteristic pursuit. "My dear," Cassandra exclaimed, shaking the book at her cousin, "my whole life s changed from this moment! I must write the man s name down at once, or I shall forget" Whose name, what book, which life was changed Katharine proceeded to ascertain. She began to lay aside her clothes hurriedly, for she was very late. "May I sit and watch you?" Cassandra asked, shutting up her book. "I got ready on purpose." "Oh, you re ready, are you?" said Katharine, half turning in the midst of her operations, and looking at Cassandra, who sat, clasping her knees, on the edge of the bed. "There are people dining here," she said, taking in the effect of Cassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, the distinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its long tapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hair rose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century. "Who s coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture. "There s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it s at the climax; but to-morrow it ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe." She spoke disconnectedly, handling brush and comb, and pulling out the little drawers in her dressing-table and leaving them open. Cassandra, sitting on the bed behind her, saw the reflection of her cousin s face in the looking-glass. The face in the looking-glass was serious and intent, apparently occupied with other things besides the straightness of the parting which, however, was being driven as straight as a Roman road through the dark hair. Cassandra was impressed again by Katharine s maturity; and, as she enveloped herself in the blue dress which filled almost the whole of the long looking-glass with blue light and made it the frame of a picture, holding not only the slightly moving effigy of the beautiful woman, but shapes and colors of objects reflected from the background, Cassandra thought that no sight had ever been quite so romantic. It was all in keeping with the room and the house, and the city round them; for her ears had not yet ceased to notice the hum of distant wheels. They went downstairs rather late, in spite of Katharine s extreme speed in getting ready. To Cassandra s ears the buzz of voices inside the drawing-room was like the tuning up of the instruments of the orchestra. It seemed to her that there were numbers of people in the room, and that they were strangers, and that they were beautiful and dressed with the greatest distinction, although they proved to be mostly her relations, and the distinction of their clothing was confined, in the eyes of an impartial observer, to the white waistcoat which Rodney wore. But they all rose simultaneously, which was by itself impressive, and they all exclaimed, and shook hands, and she was introduced to Mr. Peyton, and the door sprang open, and dinner was announced,	charming companion. The cousins seemed to assemble between them a great range of qualities which are never found united in one person and seldom in half a dozen people. Where Katharine was simple, Cassandra was complex; where Katharine was solid and direct, Cassandra was vague and evasive. In short, they represented very well the manly and the womanly sides of the feminine nature, and, for foundation, there was the profound unity of common blood between them. If Cassandra adored Katharine she was incapable of adoring any one without refreshing her spirit with frequent draughts of raillery and criticism, and Katharine enjoyed her laughter at least as much as her respect. Respect was certainly uppermost in Cassandra s mind at the present moment. Katharine s engagement had appealed to her imagination as the first engagement in a circle of contemporaries is apt to appeal to the imaginations of the others; it was solemn, beautiful, and mysterious; it gave both parties the important air of those who have been initiated into some rite which is still concealed from the rest of the group. For Katharine s sake Cassandra thought William a most distinguished and interesting character, and welcomed first his conversation and then his manuscript as the marks of a friendship which it flattered and delighted her to inspire. Katharine was still out when she arrived at Cheyne Walk. After greeting her uncle and aunt and receiving, as usual, a present of two sovereigns for "cab fares and dissipation" from Uncle Trevor, whose favorite niece she was, she changed her dress and wandered into Katharine s room to await her. What a great looking-glass Katharine had, she thought, and how mature all the arrangements upon the dressing-table were compared to what she was used to at home. Glancing round, she thought that the bills stuck upon a skewer and stood for ornament upon the mantelpiece were astonishingly like Katharine, There wasn t a photograph of William anywhere to be seen. The room, with its combination of luxury and bareness, its silk dressing-gowns and crimson slippers, its shabby carpet and bare walls, had a powerful air of Katharine herself; she stood in the middle of the room and enjoyed the sensation; and then, with a desire to finger what her cousin was in the habit of fingering, Cassandra began to take down the books which stood in a row upon the shelf above the bed. In most houses this shelf is the ledge upon which the last relics of religious belief lodge themselves as if, late at night, in the heart of privacy, people, skeptical by day, find solace in sipping one draught of the old charm for such sorrows or perplexities as may steal from their hiding-places in the dark. But there was no hymn-book here. By their battered covers and enigmatical contents, Cassandra judged them to be old school-books belonging to Uncle Trevor, and piously, though eccentrically, preserved by his daughter. There was no end, she thought, to the unexpectedness of Katharine. She had once had a passion for geometry herself, and, curled upon Katharine s quilt, she became absorbed in trying to remember how far she had forgotten what she once knew. Katharine, coming in a little later, found her deep in this characteristic pursuit. "My dear," Cassandra exclaimed, shaking the book at her cousin, "my whole life s changed from this moment! I must write the man s name down at once, or I shall forget" Whose name, what book, which life was changed Katharine proceeded to ascertain. She began to lay aside her clothes hurriedly, for she was very late. "May I sit and watch you?" Cassandra asked, shutting up her book. "I got ready on purpose." "Oh, you re ready, are you?" said Katharine, half turning in the midst of her operations, and looking at Cassandra, who sat, clasping her knees, on the edge of the bed. "There are people dining here," she said, taking in the effect of Cassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, the distinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its long tapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hair rose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century. "Who s coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture. "There s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it s at the climax; but to-morrow it ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe." She spoke disconnectedly, handling brush and comb, and pulling out the little drawers in her dressing-table and leaving them open. Cassandra, sitting on the bed behind her, saw the reflection of her cousin s face in the looking-glass. The face in the looking-glass was serious and intent, apparently occupied with other things besides the straightness of the parting which, however, was being driven as straight as a Roman road through the dark hair. Cassandra was impressed again by Katharine s maturity; and, as she enveloped herself in the blue dress which filled almost the whole of the long looking-glass with blue light and made it the frame of a picture, holding not only the slightly moving effigy of the beautiful woman, but shapes and colors of objects reflected from the background, Cassandra thought that no sight had ever been quite so romantic. It was all in keeping with the room and the house, and the city round them; for her ears had not yet ceased to notice the hum of distant wheels. They went downstairs rather late, in spite of Katharine s extreme speed in getting ready. To Cassandra s ears the buzz of voices inside the drawing-room was like the tuning up of the instruments of the orchestra. It seemed to her that there were numbers of people in the room, and that they were strangers, and that they were beautiful and dressed with the greatest distinction, although they proved to be mostly her relations, and the distinction of their clothing was confined, in the eyes of an impartial observer, to the white waistcoat which Rodney wore. But they all rose simultaneously, which was by itself impressive, and they all exclaimed, and shook hands, and she was introduced to Mr. Peyton, and the door sprang open, and dinner was announced, and they filed off, William Rodney offering her his slightly bent black arm, as she had secretly hoped he would. In short, had the scene been looked at only through her eyes, it must have been described as one of magical brilliancy. The pattern of the soup-plates, the stiff folds of the napkins, which rose by the side of each plate in the shape of arum lilies, the long sticks of bread tied with pink ribbon, the silver dishes and the sea-colored champagne glasses, with the flakes of gold congealed in their stems all these details, together with a curiously pervasive smell of kid gloves, contributed to her exhilaration, which must be repressed, however, because she was grown up, and the world held no more for her to marvel at. The world held no more for her to marvel at, it is true; but it held other people; and each other person possessed in Cassandra s mind some fragment of what privately she called "reality." It was a gift that they would impart if you asked them for it, and thus no dinner-party could possibly be dull, and little Mr. Peyton on her right and William Rodney on her left were in equal measure endowed with the quality which seemed to her so unmistakable and so precious that the way people neglected to demand it was a constant source of surprise to her. She scarcely knew, indeed, whether she was talking to Mr. Peyton or to William Rodney. But to one who, by degrees, assumed the shape of an elderly man with a mustache, she described how she had arrived in London that very afternoon, and how she had taken a cab and driven through the streets. Mr. Peyton, an editor of fifty years, bowed his bald head repeatedly, with apparent understanding. At least, he understood that she was very young and pretty, and saw that she was excited, though he could not gather at once from her words or remember from his own experience what there was to be excited about. "Were there any buds on the trees?" he asked. "Which line did she travel by?" He was cut short in these amiable inquiries by her desire to know whether he was one of those who read, or one of those who look out of the window? Mr. Peyton was by no means sure which he did. He rather	of William anywhere to be seen. The room, with its combination of luxury and bareness, its silk dressing-gowns and crimson slippers, its shabby carpet and bare walls, had a powerful air of Katharine herself; she stood in the middle of the room and enjoyed the sensation; and then, with a desire to finger what her cousin was in the habit of fingering, Cassandra began to take down the books which stood in a row upon the shelf above the bed. In most houses this shelf is the ledge upon which the last relics of religious belief lodge themselves as if, late at night, in the heart of privacy, people, skeptical by day, find solace in sipping one draught of the old charm for such sorrows or perplexities as may steal from their hiding-places in the dark. But there was no hymn-book here. By their battered covers and enigmatical contents, Cassandra judged them to be old school-books belonging to Uncle Trevor, and piously, though eccentrically, preserved by his daughter. There was no end, she thought, to the unexpectedness of Katharine. She had once had a passion for geometry herself, and, curled upon Katharine s quilt, she became absorbed in trying to remember how far she had forgotten what she once knew. Katharine, coming in a little later, found her deep in this characteristic pursuit. "My dear," Cassandra exclaimed, shaking the book at her cousin, "my whole life s changed from this moment! I must write the man s name down at once, or I shall forget" Whose name, what book, which life was changed Katharine proceeded to ascertain. She began to lay aside her clothes hurriedly, for she was very late. "May I sit and watch you?" Cassandra asked, shutting up her book. "I got ready on purpose." "Oh, you re ready, are you?" said Katharine, half turning in the midst of her operations, and looking at Cassandra, who sat, clasping her knees, on the edge of the bed. "There are people dining here," she said, taking in the effect of Cassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, the distinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its long tapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hair rose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century. "Who s coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture. "There s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it s at the climax; but to-morrow it ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe." She spoke disconnectedly, handling brush and comb, and pulling out the little drawers in her dressing-table and leaving them open. Cassandra, sitting on the bed behind her, saw the reflection of her cousin s face in the looking-glass. The face in the looking-glass was serious and intent, apparently occupied with other things besides the straightness of the parting which, however, was being driven as straight as a Roman road through the dark hair. Cassandra was impressed again by Katharine s maturity; and, as she enveloped herself in the blue dress which filled almost the whole of the long looking-glass with blue light and made it the frame of a picture, holding not only the slightly moving effigy of the beautiful woman, but shapes and colors of objects reflected from the background, Cassandra thought that no sight had ever been quite so romantic. It was all in keeping with the room and the house, and the city round them; for her ears had not yet ceased to notice the hum of distant wheels. They went downstairs rather late, in spite of Katharine s extreme speed in getting ready. To Cassandra s ears the buzz of voices inside the drawing-room was like the tuning up of the instruments of the orchestra. It seemed to her that there were numbers of people in the room, and that they were strangers, and that they were beautiful and dressed with the greatest distinction, although they proved to be mostly her relations, and the distinction of their clothing was confined, in the eyes of an impartial observer, to the white waistcoat which Rodney wore. But they all rose simultaneously, which was by itself impressive,	Night And Day
"There she is."	Jake Barnes	is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward	a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street.	had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you."	it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the	well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?"	said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it. "What's the matter, Frances?" "Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me." "How do you mean?" "Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it." "What's the matter?" "He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York." She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially. "I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce." I said nothing. "We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had scenes. It's	help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said," 'he's a garter snapper.' "That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto." "No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it. "What's the matter, Frances?" "Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me." "How do you mean?" "Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it." "What's the matter?" "He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York." She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially. "I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce." I said nothing. "We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had scenes. It's so childish. We have dreadful scenes, and he cries and begs me to be reasonable, but he says he just can't do it." "It's rotten luck." "I should say it is rotten luck. I've wasted two years and a half on him now. And I don't know now if any man will ever want to marry me. Two years ago I could have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes. All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and settle down were crazy about me. Now I don't think I could get anybody." "Sure, you could marry anybody." "No, I don't believe it. And I'm fond of him, too. And I'd like to have children. I always thought we'd have children." She looked at me very brightly. "I never liked children much, but I don't want to think I'll never have them. I always thought I'd have them and then like them." "He's got children." "Oh, yes. He's got children, and he's got money, and he's got a rich mother, and he's written a book, and nobody will publish my stuff; nobody at all. It isn't bad, either. And I haven't got any money at all. I could have had alimony, but I got the divorce the quickest way." She looked at me again very brightly. "It isn't right. It's my own fault and it's not, too. I ought to have known better. And when I tell him he just cries and says he can't marry. Why can't he marry? I'd be a good wife. I'm easy to get along with. I leave him alone. It doesn't do any good." "It's a rotten shame." "Yes, it is a rotten shame. But there's no use talking about it, is there? Come on, let's go back to the caf ." "And of course there isn't anything I can do." "No. Just don't let him know I talked to you. I know what he wants." Now for the first time she dropped her bright, terribly cheerful manner. "He wants to go back to New York alone, and be there when his book comes out so when a lot of little chickens like it. That's what he wants." "Maybe they won't like it. I don't think he's that way. Really." "You don't know him like I do, Jake. That's what he wants to do. I know it. I know it. That's why	a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto." "No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it. "What's the matter, Frances?" "Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me." "How do you mean?" "Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it." "What's the matter?" "He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York." She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially. "I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce." I said nothing. "We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had scenes. It's so childish. We have dreadful scenes, and he cries and begs me to be reasonable, but he says he just can't do it." "It's rotten luck." "I should say it is rotten luck. I've wasted two years and a half on him now. And I don't know now if any man will ever want to marry me. Two years ago I could have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes. All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and settle down were crazy about me. Now I don't think I could get anybody." "Sure, you could marry anybody." "No, I don't believe it. And I'm fond of him, too. And I'd like to have children. I always thought we'd have children." She looked at me very brightly. "I never liked children much, but I don't want to think I'll never have them. I always thought I'd have them and	The Sun Also Rises
said Mr. Brownlow.	No speaker	must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent	that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such	I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this	you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman	no, no!" returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken to-night!" "The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night." "I will give fifty	gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, _the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!" "No, no, no!" returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken to-night!" "The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night." "I will give fifty more," said Mr. Brownlow, "and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?" "Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard this," replied the doctor, "and mounting his horse sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them." "Fagin," said Mr. Brownlow; "what of him?" "When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time. They're sure of him." "Have you made up your mind?" asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks. "Yes," he replied. "You you will be secret with me?" "I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety." They left the room, and the door was again locked. "What have you done?" asked the doctor in a whisper. "All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl's intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend's inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the	from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance to this picture I have spoken of, struck me with astonishment. Even when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew his history" "Why not?" asked Monks hastily. "Because you know it well." "I!" "Denial to me is vain," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I shall show you that I know more than that." "You you can't prove anything against me," stammered Monks. "I defy you to do it!" "We shall see," returned the old gentleman with a searching glance. "I lost the boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being dead, I knew that you alone could solve the mystery if anybody could, and as when I had last heard of you you were on your own estate in the West Indies whither, as you well know, you retired upon your mother's death to escape the consequences of vicious courses here I made the voyage. You had left it, months before, and were supposed to be in London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Your agents had no clue to your residence. You came and went, they said, as strangely as you had ever done: sometimes for days together and sometimes not for months: keeping to all appearance the same low haunts and mingling with the same infamous herd who had been your associates when a fierce ungovernable boy. I wearied them with new applications. I paced the streets by night and day, but until two hours ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for an instant." "And now you do see me," said Monks, rising boldly, "what then? Fraud and robbery are high-sounding words justified, you think, by a fancied resemblance in some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man's Brother! You don't even know that a child was born of this maudlin pair; you don't even know that." "I _did not_," replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; "but within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, _the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!" "No, no, no!" returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken to-night!" "The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night." "I will give fifty more," said Mr. Brownlow, "and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?" "Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard this," replied the doctor, "and mounting his horse sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them." "Fagin," said Mr. Brownlow; "what of him?" "When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time. They're sure of him." "Have you made up your mind?" asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks. "Yes," he replied. "You you will be secret with me?" "I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety." They left the room, and the door was again locked. "What have you done?" asked the doctor in a whisper. "All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl's intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend's inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the whole villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening after to-morrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there, a few hours before, but shall require rest: especially the young lady, who _may_ have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken?" "Drive straight to the office and you will be in time," replied Mr. Losberne. "I will remain here." The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly uncontrollable. CHAPTER L. THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass of its inhabitants. To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops; the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman's door, and stream from the house-parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged children, and the raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, and deafened by the clash of ponderous waggons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every corner. Arriving, at length, in streets remoter and less-frequented than those through which he has passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign of desolation and neglect. In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob's Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six	his birth. There existed proofs proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, _the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!" "No, no, no!" returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken to-night!" "The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night." "I will give fifty more," said	Oliver Twist
opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.	No speaker	anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those	ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were	an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety.	hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m	his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She	the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going	but exhale a groan of reluctant accommodation as if he wondered at the point she made of it. It enlightened him indeed perhaps a little that she went on while Gotch did her bidding. “Does the kind of relation you’d be condemned to with Mr. Crimble let you down, down, down, as you say, more than the relation you’ve been having with Mr. Bender?” Lord Theign had for it the most uninforming of stares. “Do you mean don’t I hate ‘em equally both?” She cut his further reply short, however, by a “Hush!” of warning--Mr. Bender was there and his introducer had left them. Lord Theign, full of his purpose of departure, sacrificed hereupon little to ceremony. “I’ve but a moment, to my regret, to give you, Mr. Bender, and if you’ve been unavoidably detained, as you great bustling people are so apt to be, it will perhaps still be soon enough for your comfort to hear from me that I’ve just given order to close our exhibition. From the present hour on, sir” --he put it with the firmness required to settle the futility of an appeal. Mr. Bender’s large surprise lost itself, however, promptly enough, in Mr. Bender’s larger ease. “Why, do you really mean it, Lord Theign?--removing already from view a work that gives innocent gratification to thousands?” “Well,” said his lordship curtly, “if thousands have seen it I’ve done what I wanted, and if they’ve been gratified I’m content--and invite _you_ to be.” Mr. Bender showed more keenness for this richer implication. “In other words it’s I who may remove the picture?” “Well--if you’ll take it on my estimate.” “But what, Lord Theign, all this time,” Mr. Bender almost pathetically pleaded, “_is_ your estimate?” The parting guest had another pause, which prolonged itself, after he had reached the door, in a deep solicitation of their hostess’s conscious eyes. This brief passage apparently inspired his answer. “Lady Sandgate will tell you.” The door closed behind him. The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.” “But how can I know _how_ much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?” “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” --she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?” Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince _after_ the thing?” Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh--to see and admire the picture; which he thinks,	it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed	The Outcry
"Ever so many thanks."	Margaret	did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby.	very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and	her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages	that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else,	gentleman; I don t love the young--O lud, who s that coming down the stairs? I vow tis my brother. O crimini!" A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. "DEAR MRS. WILCOX," "I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we	ought not to call before she is called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disapproval, and opined that Mrs. Wilcox was keine Dame. "Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret. "Helen, stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish your packing. Why can t the woman leave us alone?" "I don t know what I shall do with Meg," Helen retorted, collapsing upon the stairs. "She s got Wilcox and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don t love the young gentleman; I don t love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?" "Most certainly her love has died," asserted Fraulein Mosebach. "Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not prevent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return the call." Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, who thought her extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg s going to return the call, and I can t. Cos why? Cos I m going to German-eye." "If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren t, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me." "But, Meg, Meg, I don t love the young gentleman; I don t love the young--O lud, who s that coming down the stairs? I vow tis my brother. O crimini!" A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. "DEAR MRS. WILCOX," "I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your family, and, in my sister s case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that our acquaintance, which began so pleasantly, should end." "I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy." "Believe me," "Yours truly," "M. J. SCHLEGEL." Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received the following reply by hand: "DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL," "You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad." "RUTH WILCOX." Margaret s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast. She was on fire with	worried on Mrs. Wilcox s account; she implied that Mrs. Wilcox might reach backward into deep feelings, and be pained by things that never touched the other members of that clan. "I shan t mind if Paul points at our house and says, There lives the girl who tried to catch me. But she might." "If even that worries you, we could arrange something. There s no reason we should be near people who displease us or whom we displease, thanks to our money. We might even go away for a little." "Well, I am going away. Frieda s just asked me to Stettin, and I shan t be back till after the New Year. Will that do? Or must I fly the country altogether? Really, Meg, what has come over you to make such a fuss?" "Oh, I m getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I minded nothing, but really I--I should be bored if you fell in love with the same man twice and" "--she cleared her throat--" "you did go red, you know, when Aunt Juley attacked you this morning. I shouldn t have referred to it otherwise." But Helen s laugh rang true, as she raised a soapy hand to heaven and swore that never, nowhere and nohow, would she again fall in love with any of the Wilcox family, down to its remotest collaterals. CHAPTER VIII The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, which was to develop so quickly and with such strange results, may perhaps have had its beginnings at Speyer, in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at the vulgar, ruddy cathedral, and listened to the talk of her husband and Helen, may have detected in the other and less charming of the sisters a deeper sympathy, a sounder judgment. She was capable of detecting such things. Perhaps it was she who had desired the Miss Schlegels to be invited to Howards End, and Margaret whose presence she had particularly desired. All this is speculation; Mrs. Wilcox has left few clear indications behind her. It is certain that she came to call at Wickham Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen was going with her cousin to Stettin. "Helen!" cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones (she was now in her cousin s confidence)--" "his mother has forgiven you!" And then, remembering that in England the new-comer ought not to call before she is called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disapproval, and opined that Mrs. Wilcox was keine Dame. "Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret. "Helen, stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish your packing. Why can t the woman leave us alone?" "I don t know what I shall do with Meg," Helen retorted, collapsing upon the stairs. "She s got Wilcox and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don t love the young gentleman; I don t love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?" "Most certainly her love has died," asserted Fraulein Mosebach. "Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not prevent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return the call." Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, who thought her extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg s going to return the call, and I can t. Cos why? Cos I m going to German-eye." "If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren t, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me." "But, Meg, Meg, I don t love the young gentleman; I don t love the young--O lud, who s that coming down the stairs? I vow tis my brother. O crimini!" A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. "DEAR MRS. WILCOX," "I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your family, and, in my sister s case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that our acquaintance, which began so pleasantly, should end." "I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy." "Believe me," "Yours truly," "M. J. SCHLEGEL." Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received the following reply by hand: "DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL," "You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad." "RUTH WILCOX." Margaret s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told her that the youth was leaving England, but other things had seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All her absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place arose the certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox. Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste in the mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary, but woe to those who employ it without due need. She flung on a hat and shawl, just like a poor woman, and plunged into the fog, which still continued. Her lips were compressed, the letter remained in her hand, and in this state she crossed the street, entered the marble vestibule of the flats, eluded the concierges, and ran up the stairs till she reached the second floor. She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown straight into Mrs. Wilcox s bedroom. "Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say." Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in bed, writing letters on an invalid table that spanned her knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside her. The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the light of a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo round her hands combined to create a strange atmosphere of dissolution. "I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot." "He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa." "I knew--I know. I have been too absurd all through. I am very much ashamed." Mrs. Wilcox did not answer. "I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you will forgive me." "It doesn t matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to have come round so promptly." "It does matter," cried Margaret. "I have been rude to you; and my sister is not even at home, so there was not even that excuse." "Indeed?" "She has just gone to Germany." "She gone as well," murmured the other. "Yes, certainly, it is quite safe--safe, absolutely, now." "You ve been worrying too!" exclaimed Margaret, getting more and more excited, and taking a chair without invitation. "How perfectly extraordinary! I can see that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn t meet him again."	who thought her extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg s going to return the call, and I can t. Cos why? Cos I m going to German-eye." "If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren t, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me." "But, Meg, Meg, I don t love the young gentleman; I don t love the young--O lud, who s that coming down the stairs? I vow tis my brother. O crimini!" A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. "DEAR MRS. WILCOX," "I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your family, and, in my sister s case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that our acquaintance, which began so pleasantly, should end." "I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy." "Believe me," "Yours truly," "M. J. SCHLEGEL." Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received the following reply by hand: "DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL," "You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad." "RUTH WILCOX." Margaret s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast.	Howards End
"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."	Elinor	"I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said	I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear	tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how	of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think	may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which	there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood s happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it." "I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford." Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted. "You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me." The promise was readily given, and Willoughby s behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness. "Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to	cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain." So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine. She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne. Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover s heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood s happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it." "I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford." Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted. "You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me." The promise was readily given, and Willoughby s behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness. "Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton." He engaged to be with them by four o clock. CHAPTER XV. Mrs. Dashwood s visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home. On their return from the park they found Willoughby s curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs. Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which over-powered Marianne. "Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she entered "is she ill?" "I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill for I am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!" "Disappointment?" "Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you." "To London! and are you going this morning?" "Almost this moment." "This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged; and her business will not detain you from us long I hope." He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth." "And is Mrs. Smith	employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance	Sense And Sensibility
"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"	Dolly	be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has	own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They	news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s	it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?"	lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight	larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich--a relic this of some prehistoric craving--was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?" "Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles s were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathised, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered. "Oh, yes," she cried, "that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-cases." "Why has she done that? How unnecessary!" "Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to." "I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire." "It was far more than an air," said Dolly solemnly. "The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you don t know." "Books!" cried Margaret, moved by	might go on asking such questions indefinitely." One might; but he was only gaining time for a plausible answer. Out it came, and he believed it as soon as it was spoken. "The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. Don t let this go any further." "Certainly not." "I shouldn t like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad bargain. No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor little girl! She was so keen on it all, and wouldn t even wait to make proper inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up--just like all of your sex. Well, no harm s done. She has had her country wedding, and I ve got rid of my goose to some fellows who are starting a preparatory school." "Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy living somewhere." "I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?" Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilisation which is altering human nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal relations a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that they once exercised on character must be entrusted to Love alone. May Love be equal to the task! "It is now what?" continued Henry. "Nearly October. Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring." "If possible, something permanent. I can t be as young as I was, for these alterations don t suit me." "But, my dear, which would you rather have--alterations or rheumatism?" "I see your point," said Margaret, getting up. "If Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time. These endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly expensive." "What a practical little woman it is! What s it been reading? Theo--theo--how much?" "Theosophy." So Ducie Street was her first fate--a pleasant enough fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich--a relic this of some prehistoric craving--was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?" "Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles s were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathised, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered. "Oh, yes," she cried, "that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-cases." "Why has she done that? How unnecessary!" "Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to." "I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire." "It was far more than an air," said Dolly solemnly. "The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you don t know." "Books!" cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. "Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our books?" "Hasn t she, though! What used to be the hall s full of them. Charles thought for certain you knew of it." "I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss Avery? I must go down about it at once. Some of the books are my brother s, and are quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the cases." "I say she s dotty. She was the one that never got married, you know. Oh, I say, perhaps, she thinks your books are wedding-presents to herself. Old maids are taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us all like poison ever since her frightful dust-up with Evie." "I hadn t heard of that," said Margaret. A visit from Dolly had its compensations. "Didn t you know she gave Evie a present last August, and Evie returned it, and then--oh, goloshes! You never read such a letter as Miss Avery wrote." "But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn t like her to do such a heartless thing." "But the present was so expensive." "Why does that make any difference, Dolly?" "Still, when it costs over five pounds--I didn t see it, but it was a lovely enamel pendant from a Bond Street shop. You can t very well accept that kind of thing from a farm woman. Now, can you?" "You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you were married." "Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff--not worth a halfpenny. Evie s was quite different. You d have to ask any one to the wedding who gave you a pendant like that. Uncle Percy and Albert and father and Charles all said it was quite impossible, and when four men agree, what is a girl to do? Evie didn t want to upset the old thing, so thought a sort of joking letter best, and returned the pendant straight to the shop to save Miss Avery trouble." "But Miss Avery said--" Dolly s eyes grew round. "It was a perfectly awful letter. Charles said it was the letter of a madman. In the end she had the pendant back again from the shop and threw it into the duck-pond." "Did she give any reasons?" "We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and so climb	really damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time. These endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly expensive." "What a practical little woman it is! What s it been reading? Theo--theo--how much?" "Theosophy." So Ducie Street was her first fate--a pleasant enough fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich--a relic this of some prehistoric craving--was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?" "Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles s were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought	Howards End
"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"	Jenny Abdul Akbar	where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and	perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five	him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung	club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held	this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at	turned over regularly; Mrs Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room. "What must that man have thought?" said Tony, when he had gone out. (" "Sitting there clucking like a 'en," Albert reported, "and the little fellow lying dead upstairs." ") "We'd better stop." "It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know." She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must be in London by now." Mrs Rattery said, "I'd rather like some whisky." * * * * * Jock had not seen Brenda's flat. It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district. Mrs Beaver deplored the space wasted by the well staircase and empty, paved hall. There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop. A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN. But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I	sooner not play." "You get the dice and sit up here at the table. We've got six hours to get through." She showed him how to throw craps. He said, "I've seen it on the cinema--pullman porters and taxi men." "Of course you have, it's easy... there you see you've won, you take all." Presently Tony said, "I've just thought of something." "Don't you ever take a rest from thinking?" "Suppose the evening papers have got hold of it already. Brenda may see it on a placard, or just pick up a paper casually and there it will be... perhaps with a photograph." "Yes, I thought of that just now, when you were talking about telegraphing." "But it's quite likely, isn't it? They get hold of everything so quickly. What can we do about it?" "There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up." "I don't want to play any more. I'm worried." "I know you're worried. You don't have to tell me... you aren't going to give up playing just when the luck's running your way?" "I'm sorry... it isn't any good." He walked about the room, first to the window, then to the fireplace. He began to fill his pipe. "At least we can find out whether the evening papers have got it in. We can ring up and ask the hall porter at my club." "That's not going to prevent your wife reading it. We've just got to wait. What was the game you said you knew? Animal something?" "Snap." "I'll buy it." "It's just a child's game. It would be ridiculous with two." "Show me." "Well each of us chooses an animal." "All right, I'm a dog and you're a hen. Now what?" Tony explained. "I'd say it was one of those games that you have to feel pretty good first, before you can enjoy them," said Mrs Rattery. "But I'll try anything." They each took a pack and began dealing. Soon a pair of eights appeared. "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery, scooping in the cards. Another pair, "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery. "You know you aren't putting your heart into this." "Oh," said Tony. "Coop-coop-coop." Presently he said again, "Coop-coop-coop." "Don't be dumb," said Mrs Rattery, "that isn't a pair..." They were still playing when Albert came in to draw the curtains. Tony had only two cards left which he turned over regularly; Mrs Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room. "What must that man have thought?" said Tony, when he had gone out. (" "Sitting there clucking like a 'en," Albert reported, "and the little fellow lying dead upstairs." ") "We'd better stop." "It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know." She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must be in London by now." Mrs Rattery said, "I'd rather like some whisky." * * * * * Jock had not seen Brenda's flat. It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district. Mrs Beaver deplored the space wasted by the well staircase and empty, paved hall. There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop. A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN. But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for	anything." They each took a pack and began dealing. Soon a pair of eights appeared. "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery, scooping in the cards. Another pair, "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery. "You know you aren't putting your heart into this." "Oh," said Tony. "Coop-coop-coop." Presently he said again, "Coop-coop-coop." "Don't be dumb," said Mrs Rattery, "that isn't a pair..." They were still playing when Albert came in to draw the curtains. Tony had only two cards left which he turned over regularly; Mrs Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room. "What must that man have thought?" said Tony, when he had gone out. (" "Sitting there clucking like a 'en," Albert reported, "and the little fellow lying dead upstairs." ") "We'd better stop." "It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know." She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must be in London by now." Mrs Rattery said, "I'd rather like some whisky." * * * * * Jock had not seen Brenda's flat. It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district. Mrs Beaver deplored the space wasted by the well staircase and empty, paved hall. There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop. A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN. But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and	A Handful Of Dust
answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.	No speaker	right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said	asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid	For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should	wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though	it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his heart. "Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked. "It was dark and rainy then ..." The warmth was glowing now	how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev her hand, and he could see that her heart was beating with excitement; and looking at him intently and curiously, she went on: "How much stouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly, but on the whole you have changed very little." Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there was something lacking in her, or else something superfluous--he could not himself have said exactly what it was, but something prevented him from feeling as before. He did not like her pallor, her new expression, her faint smile, her voice, and soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which had troubled him four years before--and he felt awkward. They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel; she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her to finish. "People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his heart. "Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked. "It was dark and rainy then ..." The warmth was glowing now in his heart, and he longed to talk, to rail at life.... "Ech!" he said with a sigh. "You ask how I am living. How do we live here? Why, not at all. We grow old, we grow stout, we grow slack. Day after day passes; life slips by without colour, without expressions, without thoughts.... In the daytime working for gain, and in the evening the club, the company of card-players, alcoholic, raucous-voiced gentlemen whom I can't endure. What is there nice in it?" "Well, you have work--a noble object in life. You used to be so fond of talking of your hospital. I was such a queer girl then; I imagined myself such a great pianist. Nowadays all young ladies play the piano, and I played, too, like everybody else, and there was nothing special about me. I am just such a pianist as my mother is an authoress. And of course I didn't understand you then, but afterwards in Moscow I often thought of you. I thought of no one but you. What happiness to be a district doctor; to help the suffering; to be serving the people! What happiness!" Ekaterina Ivanovna repeated with enthusiasm. "When I thought	was said at the time was uninteresting, unjust, and stupid; he felt irritated and disturbed, but held his tongue, and, because he sat glumly silent and looked at his plate, he was nicknamed in the town "the haughty Pole," though he never had been a Pole. All such entertainments as theatres and concerts he declined, but he played _vint_ every evening for three hours with enjoyment. He had another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little by little: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the notes he had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were stuffed in his pockets notes--yellow and green, and smelling of scent and vinegar and incense and fish oil--up to the value of seventy roubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he took them to the Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money there to his account. He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four years after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatment for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to stay with her parents, but he did not once see her; it somehow never happened. But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri Ionitch that she was missing him very much, and begged him to come and see them, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript: "I join in mother's request.--K." Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'. "How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smiling with his eyes only. "Bongjour." Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook Startsev's hand, sighed affectedly, and said: "You don't care to pay attentions to me, doctor. You never come and see us; I am too old for you. But now some one young has come; perhaps she will be more fortunate." And Kitten? She had grown thinner, paler, had grown handsomer and more graceful; but now she was Ekaterina Ivanovna, not Kitten; she had lost the freshness and look of childish naïveté. And in her expression and manners there was something new--guilty and diffident, as though she did not feel herself at home here in the Turkins' house. "How many summers, how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev her hand, and he could see that her heart was beating with excitement; and looking at him intently and curiously, she went on: "How much stouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly, but on the whole you have changed very little." Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there was something lacking in her, or else something superfluous--he could not himself have said exactly what it was, but something prevented him from feeling as before. He did not like her pallor, her new expression, her faint smile, her voice, and soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which had troubled him four years before--and he felt awkward. They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel; she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her to finish. "People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his heart. "Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked. "It was dark and rainy then ..." The warmth was glowing now in his heart, and he longed to talk, to rail at life.... "Ech!" he said with a sigh. "You ask how I am living. How do we live here? Why, not at all. We grow old, we grow stout, we grow slack. Day after day passes; life slips by without colour, without expressions, without thoughts.... In the daytime working for gain, and in the evening the club, the company of card-players, alcoholic, raucous-voiced gentlemen whom I can't endure. What is there nice in it?" "Well, you have work--a noble object in life. You used to be so fond of talking of your hospital. I was such a queer girl then; I imagined myself such a great pianist. Nowadays all young ladies play the piano, and I played, too, like everybody else, and there was nothing special about me. I am just such a pianist as my mother is an authoress. And of course I didn't understand you then, but afterwards in Moscow I often thought of you. I thought of no one but you. What happiness to be a district doctor; to help the suffering; to be serving the people! What happiness!" Ekaterina Ivanovna repeated with enthusiasm. "When I thought of you in Moscow, you seemed to me so ideal, so lofty...." Startsev thought of the notes he used to take out of his pockets in the evening with such pleasure, and the glow in his heart was quenched. He got up to go into the house. She took his arm. "You are the best man I've known in my life," she went on. "We will see each other and talk, won't we? Promise me. I am not a pianist; I am not in error about myself now, and I will not play before you or talk of music." When they had gone into the house, and when Startsev saw in the lamplight her face, and her sad, grateful, searching eyes fixed upon him, he felt uneasy and thought again: "It's a good thing I did not marry her then." He began taking leave. "You have no human right to go before supper," said Ivan Petrovitch as he saw him off. "It's extremely perpendicular on your part. Well, now, perform!" he added, addressing Pava in the hall. Pava, no longer a boy, but a young man with moustaches, threw himself into an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic voice: "Unhappy woman, die!" All this irritated Startsev. Getting into his carriage, and looking at the dark house and garden which had once been so precious and so dear, he thought of everything at once--Vera Iosifovna's novels and Kitten's noisy playing, and Ivan Petrovitch's jokes and Pava's tragic posturing, and thought if the most talented people in the town were so futile, what must the town be? Three days later Pava brought a letter from Ekaterina Ivanovna. "You don't come and see us--why?" she wrote to him. "I am afraid that you have changed towards us. I am afraid, and I am terrified at the very thought of it. Reassure me; come and tell me that everything is well. " I must talk to you.--Your E. I. " * * * * * He read this letter, thought a moment, and said to Pava: " Tell them, my good fellow, that I can't come to-day; I am very busy. Say I will come in three days or so. " But three days passed, a week passed; he still did not go. Happening once to drive past the Turkins' house, he thought he must go in, if only for	voice, and soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which had troubled him four years before--and he felt awkward. They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel; she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her to finish. "People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his heart. "Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked. "It was dark and rainy then ..." The warmth was glowing now in his heart, and he longed to talk, to rail at life.... "Ech!" he said with a sigh. "You ask how I am living. How do we	The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (4)
"I tell you it can't be!"	Colonel Ducroix	got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard	Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall	"Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing	motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through	did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which	a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die. "What the devil is up?" cried the Professor, seizing his arm. "The morning star has fallen!" said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star. The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light. "The world is insane!" said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands. "No," said Dr. Bull in adamantine humility, "it is I." "What are we going to do?" asked the Professor. "At this moment," said Syme, with a scientific detachment, "I think we are	and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!" There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand. "What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die. "What the devil is up?" cried the Professor, seizing his arm. "The morning star has fallen!" said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star. The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light. "The world is insane!" said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands. "No," said Dr. Bull in adamantine humility, "it is I." "What are we going to do?" asked the Professor. "At this moment," said Syme, with a scientific detachment, "I think we are going to smash into a lamppost." The next instant the automobile had come with a catastrophic jar against an iron object. The instant after that four men had crawled out from under a chaos of metal, and a tall lean lamp-post that had stood up straight on the edge of the marine parade stood out, bent and twisted, like the branch of a broken tree. "Well, we smashed something," said the Professor, with a faint smile. "That's some comfort." "You're becoming an anarchist," said Syme, dusting his clothes with his instinct of daintiness. "Everyone is," said Ratcliffe. As they spoke, the white-haired horseman and his followers came thundering from above, and almost at the same moment a dark string of men ran shouting along the sea-front. Syme snatched a sword, and took it in his teeth; he stuck two others under his arm-pits, took a fourth in his left hand and the lantern in his right, and leapt off the high parade on to the beach below. The others leapt after him, with a common acceptance of such decisive action, leaving the debris and the gathering mob above them. "We have one more chance," said Syme, taking the steel out of his mouth. "Whatever all this pandemonium means, I suppose the police station will help us. We can't get there, for they hold the way. But there's a pier or breakwater runs out into the sea just here, which we could defend longer than anything else, like Horatius and his bridge. We must defend it till the Gendarmerie turn out. Keep after me." They followed him as he went crunching down the beach, and in a second or two their boots broke not on the sea gravel, but on broad, flat stones. They marched down a long, low jetty, running out in one arm into the dim, boiling sea, and when they came to the end of it they felt that they had come to the end of their story. They turned and faced the town. That town was transfigured with uproar. All along the high parade from which they had just descended was a dark and roaring stream of humanity, with tossing arms and fiery faces, groping and glaring towards them. The long dark line was dotted with torches and lanterns; but even where no flame lit up a furious face, they could see in the farthest figure, in	Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die. "What the devil is up?" cried the Professor, seizing his arm. "The morning star has fallen!" said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star. The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light. "The world is insane!" said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands. "No," said Dr. Bull in adamantine humility, "it is I." "What are we going to do?" asked the Professor. "At this moment," said Syme, with a scientific detachment, "I think we are going to smash into a lamppost." The next instant the automobile had come with a catastrophic jar against an iron object. The instant after that four men had	The Man Who Was Thursday
“How do you like mother’s friends?”	Daisy	on a white dress too.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>Daisy turned her around so	child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do	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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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	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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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,”	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 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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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	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 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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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?”	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 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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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 sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of	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 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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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	The Great Gatsby
"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"	Jem Wimble	"Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>said Jem, with a chuckle.	about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?"	It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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	both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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	sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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	headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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	he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their enemy cast upon the glistening wall of the place, down which the water seemed to drip, giving it the look of glass. All at once Don, as he crept back, felt his left foot, instead of encountering the smooth rock floor, go down, and as he quickly withdrew it and felt nearer to him, it was to touch the edge of what seemed a great crack crossing the floor diagonally. As he paused, he felt that it might be a "fault" of a few inches in width or depth, or a vast chasm going right down into the bowels of the mountain! "There's a hole here," he whispered to Jem. "Hold my hand." Jem gripped him firmly, and he reached out with one leg, and felt over the side outward and downward; and, just as he was coming to the conclusion that the place was terribly deep, and a shudder at the danger was running through him, he found that he could touch bottom. He was in the act of recovering himself, so as to try how wide the crack or fault might be, when a peculiar strangling sensation attacked him, and he felt that he was falling. The next thing he felt was Jem's lips to his ear, and feeling his whisper,-- "Hold on, lad. What's the matter?" He panted and drew his breath in a catching way for a few minutes before whispering back,-- "Nothing. Only a sudden giddiness." Jem made no comment, but gripped his hand tightly, and they stood listening, for the shadow cast faintly on the walls was motionless, and it was evident that their enemy was listening. "I'm going on, Ramsden," said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I	gripped his hand tightly, and they stood listening, for the shadow cast faintly on the walls was motionless, and it was evident that their enemy was listening. "I'm going on, Ramsden," said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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."	Don Lavington
"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."	Jem Wimble	for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I	said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don,	women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't	you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and	keep in Noo Zealanders, but they won't keep in two English chaps, will they?" "Do you think if we got away in the woods, we could manage to live, Jem?" "I think, my lad, if we stop in this here _pah_, we can't manage to at all, so we'll try that other way as soon as we can." "Do you think it will be cowardly to leave these poor creatures in the power of the enemy?" "If we could do 'em any good by staying it would be cowardly; but we can't do 'em any good. So as soon as you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and if you're the same mind as me, off we go to-night." Don's heart beat fast, and a curious feeling of timidity came over him, consequent upon his weakness, but he mastered it, and, laying his hand on his companion's arm, responded,-- "I am ready." "Then we'll make our hay while the sun shines, and as soon as it's dark," said Jem, earnestly, and unconscious of the peculiarity of his use of the proverb. "Let's lie still just as the others do, and then, I'm sorry for 'em; but this here's a case where we must help ourselves." Jem lay there	order the prisoners, wounded and sound, rose up with the women and children; and as patiently and apathetically as possible, allowed themselves to be driven up the hill-side to the strongly-built _pah_, through whose gateway they entered, and then threw themselves wearily down in the shadow of the great fence, while their captors secured the entrance, and a couple of them remained on guard. "Do I look like a sheep, Mas' Don?" said Jem, as he threw himself on the earth. "Sheep? No, Jem. Why?" "Because I feels like one, my lad. Driven in here like one of a flock, and this place just like a great pen; and here we are to be kept till we're wanted for--Oh, don't look like that, Mas' Don. It was only my fun. I say, you look as white as a wax image." "Then don't talk that way," said Don, hoarsely. "It is too horrible." "So it is, dear lad; but it seems to me that they only want to keep us now for slaves or servants. They're not going to, eh?" "No, Jem," said Don looking at the great fence. "Yes, that's just what I think, my lad. Posts like this may keep in Noo Zealanders, but they won't keep in two English chaps, will they?" "Do you think if we got away in the woods, we could manage to live, Jem?" "I think, my lad, if we stop in this here _pah_, we can't manage to at all, so we'll try that other way as soon as we can." "Do you think it will be cowardly to leave these poor creatures in the power of the enemy?" "If we could do 'em any good by staying it would be cowardly; but we can't do 'em any good. So as soon as you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and if you're the same mind as me, off we go to-night." Don's heart beat fast, and a curious feeling of timidity came over him, consequent upon his weakness, but he mastered it, and, laying his hand on his companion's arm, responded,-- "I am ready." "Then we'll make our hay while the sun shines, and as soon as it's dark," said Jem, earnestly, and unconscious of the peculiarity of his use of the proverb. "Let's lie still just as the others do, and then, I'm sorry for 'em; but this here's a case where we must help ourselves." Jem lay there on his back as if asleep, when three stalwart Maoris came round soon after dusk, and took out the bowls which had held the food. They were laughing and talking together, as if in high glee, and it was apparently about the success of the festival, for they looked at their prisoners, whom they then seemed to count over, each in turn touching the poor creatures with the butt ends of their long spears. Don felt the hot blood surge through his veins as one of the three guards gave him a harsh thrust with his spear, but he did not wince, only lay back patiently and waited till the men had gone. They secured the way into the _pah_, after which they squatted down, and began talking together in a low voice. Don listened to them for a time, and then turned over to where Jem lay as if asleep. "Is it dark enough?" he whispered. "Plenty. I'm ready." "Can you manage to get over?" "I will get over," said Jem, almost fiercely. "Wait a little while, Mas' Don." "I can't wait, Jem," he whispered. "I feel now as if I must act. But one minute: I don't like	after partaking of the food, he was ready to accept Jem's suggestion that they should bathe their hands and faces in the rushing water that foamed by close at hand, the conquerors being too much occupied with their singing and feasting to pay much heed to them. So they crept to the rocky edge of the clear, sparkling water, and to their surprise found that it was quite warm. But it was none the less refreshing, and as they half lay afterwards on the sun-warmed rock at the side, watching suspiciously every act of their new masters, in dread of that horror which sent a chill through both, they felt the refreshing glow send new life and strength through them, and as if their vigour were returning with every breath they drew. "Feel better, Mas' Don?" "Yes, much." "So 'm I. If it wasn't for the hole in my shoulder, and it being so stiff, I shouldn't be long before I was all right." "Does it pain you very much?" "Come, that's better, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Better?" "Yes; you're looking up again, and taking a bit o' interest in things. You quite frightened me, you seemed so down. My shoulder? Well, it do give it me pretty tidy. I thought I should have had to squeal when I was washing just now. But my legs are all right, Mas' Don. How's yourn?" "My legs?" "Yes. How soon shall we be ready to cut away?" "Hush!" "Oh! There's no one here understands English. When shall it be-- to-night?" "First time there is an opportunity, Jem," said Don, softly. "That's so, my lad; so every time you get a chance, you eat; and when you don't eat you drink, and lie down all you can." "Do you think any of the men here would try to escape with us?" Jem shook his head. "I don't understand 'em, Mas' Don. Seems to me that these chaps are all fight till they're beaten; but as soon as they're beaten, they're like some horses over a job: they won't try again. No, they're no good to help us, and I suppose they mean to take it as it comes." The two lay in silence now, watching the proceedings of their captors, who were being feasted, till there was a sudden movement, and about a dozen men approached them, spear in hand. At a shouted order the prisoners, wounded and sound, rose up with the women and children; and as patiently and apathetically as possible, allowed themselves to be driven up the hill-side to the strongly-built _pah_, through whose gateway they entered, and then threw themselves wearily down in the shadow of the great fence, while their captors secured the entrance, and a couple of them remained on guard. "Do I look like a sheep, Mas' Don?" said Jem, as he threw himself on the earth. "Sheep? No, Jem. Why?" "Because I feels like one, my lad. Driven in here like one of a flock, and this place just like a great pen; and here we are to be kept till we're wanted for--Oh, don't look like that, Mas' Don. It was only my fun. I say, you look as white as a wax image." "Then don't talk that way," said Don, hoarsely. "It is too horrible." "So it is, dear lad; but it seems to me that they only want to keep us now for slaves or servants. They're not going to, eh?" "No, Jem," said Don looking at the great fence. "Yes, that's just what I think, my lad. Posts like this may keep in Noo Zealanders, but they won't keep in two English chaps, will they?" "Do you think if we got away in the woods, we could manage to live, Jem?" "I think, my lad, if we stop in this here _pah_, we can't manage to at all, so we'll try that other way as soon as we can." "Do you think it will be cowardly to leave these poor creatures in the power of the enemy?" "If we could do 'em any good by staying it would be cowardly; but we can't do 'em any good. So as soon as you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and if you're the same mind as me, off we go to-night." Don's heart beat fast, and a curious feeling of timidity came over him, consequent upon his weakness, but he mastered it, and, laying his hand on his companion's arm, responded,-- "I am ready." "Then we'll make our hay while the sun shines, and as soon as it's dark," said Jem, earnestly, and unconscious of the peculiarity of his use of the proverb. "Let's lie still just as the others do, and then, I'm sorry for 'em; but this here's a case where we must help ourselves." Jem lay there on his back as if asleep, when three stalwart Maoris came round soon after dusk, and took out the bowls which had held the food. They were laughing and talking together, as if in high glee, and it was apparently about the success of the festival, for they looked at their prisoners, whom they then seemed to count over, each in turn touching the poor creatures with the butt ends of their long spears. Don felt the hot blood surge through his veins as one of the three guards gave him a harsh thrust with his spear, but he did not wince, only lay back patiently and waited till the men had gone. They secured the way into the _pah_, after which they squatted down, and began talking together in a low voice. Don listened to them for a time, and then turned over to where Jem lay as if asleep. "Is it dark enough?" he whispered. "Plenty. I'm ready." "Can you manage to get over?" "I will get over," said Jem, almost fiercely. "Wait a little while, Mas' Don." "I can't wait, Jem," he whispered. "I feel now as if I must act. But one minute: I don't like leaving these poor creatures in their helplessness." "More do I; but what can we do? They won't stir to help themselves. Only thing seems to me is to get away, and try and find some one who will come and punish the brutes as brought us here." Don's heart sank, but he knew that his companion's words were those of truth, and after a little hesitation he touched Jem with his hand, and then began to crawl slowly across the open space toward the fence. He looked back to make sure that Jem was following, but the darkness was so thick now, that even at that short distance he could not see him. Just then a touch on his foot set him at rest, and he crept softly on, listening to the low muttering of the men at the gate, and wondering whether he could find the rough part of the fence to which Jem had directed his attention. As he crept on he began to wonder next whether the prisoners would miss them, and do or say anything to call the attention of the guard; but all remained still, save that the Maoris laughed aloud at something one of them had said. This gave him confidence, and ceasing his crawling movement, he rose to his hands and feet, and crept on all fours to the fence, where he rose now to an erect position, and began to feel about for the rough post. Jem was up and by him directly after. Don placed his lips to his ear. "Whereabouts was it?" "Somewhere 'bout here. You try one way, and I'll try the other," whispered Jem; and then Don gripped his arm, and they stood listening, for a faint rustling sound seemed to come from outside. The noise was not repeated; but for quite half an hour they remained listening, till, gaining courage from the silence--the Maori guard only speaking from time to time, and then in a low, drowsy voice--Don began to follow Jem's suggestion, feeling post after post, and sometimes passing his arm through. But every one of the stout pales he touched was smooth and unclimbable without some help; and thinking that perhaps he had missed the place, he began to move back in the darkness, straining his ears the while to catch any sound made by his companion. But all was perfectly still, and every pale	The two lay in silence now, watching the proceedings of their captors, who were being feasted, till there was a sudden movement, and about a dozen men approached them, spear in hand. At a shouted order the prisoners, wounded and sound, rose up with the women and children; and as patiently and apathetically as possible, allowed themselves to be driven up the hill-side to the strongly-built _pah_, through whose gateway they entered, and then threw themselves wearily down in the shadow of the great fence, while their captors secured the entrance, and a couple of them remained on guard. "Do I look like a sheep, Mas' Don?" said Jem, as he threw himself on the earth. "Sheep? No, Jem. Why?" "Because I feels like one, my lad. Driven in here like one of a flock, and this place just like a great pen; and here we are to be kept till we're wanted for--Oh, don't look like that, Mas' Don. It was only my fun. I say, you look as white as a wax image." "Then don't talk that way," said Don, hoarsely. "It is too horrible." "So it is, dear lad; but it seems to me that they only want to keep us now for slaves or servants. They're not going to, eh?" "No, Jem," said Don looking at the great fence. "Yes, that's just what I think, my lad. Posts like this may keep in Noo Zealanders, but they won't keep in two English chaps, will they?" "Do you think if we got away in the woods, we could manage to live, Jem?" "I think, my lad, if we stop in this here _pah_, we can't manage to at all, so we'll try that other way as soon as we can." "Do you think it will be cowardly to leave these poor creatures in the power of the enemy?" "If we could do 'em any good by staying it would be cowardly; but we can't do 'em any good. So as soon as you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and if you're the same mind as me, off we go to-night." Don's heart beat fast, and a curious feeling of timidity came over him, consequent upon his weakness, but he mastered it, and, laying his hand on his companion's arm, responded,-- "I am ready." "Then we'll make our hay while the sun shines, and as soon as it's dark," said Jem, earnestly, and unconscious of the peculiarity of his use of the proverb. "Let's lie still just as the others do, and then, I'm sorry for 'em; but this here's a case where we must help ourselves." Jem lay there on his back as if asleep, when three stalwart Maoris came round soon after dusk, and took out the bowls which had held the food. They were laughing and talking together, as if in high glee, and it was apparently about the success of the festival, for they looked at their prisoners,	Don Lavington
Brett said.	No speaker	more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a	in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to	laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do	fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not	and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett	bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them	trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say." "The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out." "Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked Mike. "No. I never saw them. They say they know me." "I won't stand it," Bill said. "Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said. "They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said. "They're simply stupid," Edna said. "One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said. "I was never in Chicago," Mike said. Edna started to laugh and could not stop. "Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts." "What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone. "I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?" "Probably he owes them money" I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about." In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs	something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't	The Sun Also Rises
There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate	No speaker	benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation	On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of	concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had	of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous	last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold,	I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as if the gracious Personage were coming to condole!” Impatient of the lapse of time, in any case, she assured herself again of the hour. “Well, if he only does come!” “John--the wretch!” Lord Theign returned-- “will take care of that: he has nailed him and will bring him.” “What was it then,” his friend found occasion in the particular tone of this reference to demand, “what was it that, when you sent him off, John spoke of you in Bond Street as specifically intending?” Oh he saw it now all lucidly--if not rather luridly--and thereby the more tragically. “He described me in his nasty rage as consistently--well, heroic!” “His rage” --she pieced it sympathetically out-- “at your destroying his cherished credit with Bender?” Lord Theign was more and more possessed of this view of the manner of it. “I had come between him and some profit that he doesn’t confess to, but that made him viciously and vindictively serve me up there, as he caught the chance, to the Prince--and the People!” She cast about, in her intimate interest, as for some closer conception of it. “By saying that you had remarked here that you offered the	away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed, “does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.” “Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as if the gracious Personage were coming to condole!” Impatient of the lapse of time, in any case, she assured herself again of the hour. “Well, if he only does come!” “John--the wretch!” Lord Theign returned-- “will take care of that: he has nailed him and will bring him.” “What was it then,” his friend found occasion in the particular tone of this reference to demand, “what was it that, when you sent him off, John spoke of you in Bond Street as specifically intending?” Oh he saw it now all lucidly--if not rather luridly--and thereby the more tragically. “He described me in his nasty rage as consistently--well, heroic!” “His rage” --she pieced it sympathetically out-- “at your destroying his cherished credit with Bender?” Lord Theign was more and more possessed of this view of the manner of it. “I had come between him and some profit that he doesn’t confess to, but that made him viciously and vindictively serve me up there, as he caught the chance, to the Prince--and the People!” She cast about, in her intimate interest, as for some closer conception of it. “By saying that you had remarked here that you offered the People the picture--?” “As a sacrifice--yes!--to morbid, though respectable scruples.” To which he sharply added, as if struck with her easy grasp of the scene: “But I hope you’ve nothing to call a memory for any such extravagance?” Lady Sandgate waited--then boldly took her line. “None whatever! You had reacted against Bender--but you hadn’t gone so far as _that!_” He had it now all vividly before him. “I had reacted--like a gentleman; but it didn’t thereby follow that I acted--or spoke--like a demagogue; and my mind’s a complete blank on the subject of my having done so.” “So that there only flushes through your conscience,” she suggested, “the fact that he has forced your hand?” Fevered with the sore sense of it his lordship wiped his brow. “He has played me, for spite, his damned impertinent trick!” She found but after a minute--for it wasn’t easy--the right word, or the least wrong, for the situation. “Well, even if he did so diabolically commit you, you still don’t want--do you?--to back out?” Resenting the suggestion, which restored all his nobler form, Lord Theign fairly drew himself up. “When did I ever in all my life back out?” “Never, never in all your life of course!” --she dashed a bucketful at the flare. “And the picture after all----!” “The picture after all” --he took her up in cold grim gallant despair-- “has just been pronounced definitely priceless.” And then to meet her gaping ignorance: “By Mr. Crimble’s latest and apparently greatest adviser, who strongly stamps it a Mantovano and whose practical affidavit I now possess.” Poor Lady Sandgate gaped but the more--she wondered and yearned. “Definitely priceless?” “Definitely priceless.” After which he took from its place of lurking, considerately unfolding it, the goodly slip he had removed from her blotting-book. “Worth even more therefore than what Bender so blatantly offers.” Her attention fell with interest, from the distance at which she stood, on this confirmatory document, her recognition of which was not immediate. “And is that the affidavit?” “This is a cheque to your order, my lady, for ten thousand pounds.” “Ten thousand?” --she echoed it with a shout. “Drawn by some hand unknown,” he went on quietly. “Unknown?” --again, in her muffled joy, she let it sound out. “Which I found there at your desk a moment ago, and thought best, in your interest, to rescue from accident or neglect; even	write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as if the gracious Personage were coming to condole!” Impatient of the lapse	The Outcry
"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"	Mary Datchet	waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and	write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember	and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary,	be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. "Have you had tea?" "Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other. Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her. "Why? Where is he?" she asked. "He won t have left his office." "But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he have reached home	for a moment consider how this demand would strike Mary. To her extreme annoyance Mary was not at home; a charwoman opened the door. All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation to wait. She waited for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, and spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the other without intermission. When she heard Mary s key in the door she paused in front of the fireplace, and Mary found her standing upright, looking at once expectant and determined, like a person who has come on an errand of such importance that it must be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. "Have you had tea?" "Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other. Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her. "Why? Where is he?" she asked. "He won t have left his office." "But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried to meet him and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. So I must find him as soon as possible." Mary took in the situation at her leisure. "But why not telephone?" she said. Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strained expression relaxed, and exclaiming, "Of course! Why didn t I think of that!" she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Mary looked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharine heard, through all the superimposed weight of London,	and the map of Norfolk in a grip sufficient to crack a more solid object. She relaxed her grasp; she looked anxiously at the faces of the passers-by to see whether their eyes rested on her for a moment longer than was natural, or with any curiosity. But having smoothed out her gloves, and done what she could to look as usual, she forgot spectators, and was once more given up to her desperate desire to find Ralph Denham. It was a desire now wild, irrational, unexplained, resembling something felt in childhood. Once more she blamed herself bitterly for her carelessness. But finding herself opposite the Tube station, she pulled herself up and took counsel swiftly, as of old. It flashed upon her that she would go at once to Mary Datchet, and ask her to give her Ralph s address. The decision was a relief, not only in giving her a goal, but in providing her with a rational excuse for her own actions. It gave her a goal certainly, but the fact of having a goal led her to dwell exclusively upon her obsession; so that when she rang the bell of Mary s flat, she did not for a moment consider how this demand would strike Mary. To her extreme annoyance Mary was not at home; a charwoman opened the door. All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation to wait. She waited for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, and spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the other without intermission. When she heard Mary s key in the door she paused in front of the fireplace, and Mary found her standing upright, looking at once expectant and determined, like a person who has come on an errand of such importance that it must be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. "Have you had tea?" "Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other. Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her. "Why? Where is he?" she asked. "He won t have left his office." "But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried to meet him and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. So I must find him as soon as possible." Mary took in the situation at her leisure. "But why not telephone?" she said. Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strained expression relaxed, and exclaiming, "Of course! Why didn t I think of that!" she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Mary looked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharine heard, through all the superimposed weight of London, the mysterious sound of feet in her own house mounting to the little room, where she could almost see the pictures and the books; she listened with extreme intentness to the preparatory vibrations, and then established her identity. "Has Mr. Denham called?" "Yes, miss." "Did he ask for me?" "Yes. We said you were out, miss." "Did he leave any message?" "No. He went away. About twenty minutes ago, miss." Katharine hung up the receiver. She walked the length of the room in such acute disappointment that she did not at first perceive Mary s absence. Then she called in a harsh and peremptory tone: "Mary." Mary was taking off her outdoor things in the bedroom. She heard Katharine call her. "Yes," she said, "I shan t be a moment." But the moment prolonged itself, as if for some reason Mary found satisfaction in making herself not only tidy, but seemly and ornamented. A stage in her life had been accomplished in the last months which left its traces for ever upon her bearing. Youth, and the bloom of youth, had receded, leaving the purpose of her face to show itself in the hollower cheeks, the firmer lips, the eyes	least, upon an envelope. The more she pressed the farther the words receded. Was the house an Orchard Something, on the street a Hill? She gave it up. Never, since she was a child, had she felt anything like this blankness and desolation. There rushed in upon her, as if she were waking from some dream, all the consequences of her inexplicable indolence. She figured Ralph s face as he turned from her door without a word of explanation, receiving his dismissal as a blow from herself, a callous intimation that she did not wish to see him. She followed his departure from her door; but it was far more easy to see him marching far and fast in any direction for any length of time than to conceive that he would turn back to Highgate. Perhaps he would try once more to see her in Cheyne Walk? It was proof of the clearness with which she saw him, that she started forward as this possibility occurred to her, and almost raised her hand to beckon to a cab. No; he was too proud to come again; he rejected the desire and walked on and on, on and on If only she could read the names of those visionary streets down which he passed! But her imagination betrayed her at this point, or mocked her with a sense of their strangeness, darkness, and distance. Indeed, instead of helping herself to any decision, she only filled her mind with the vast extent of London and the impossibility of finding any single figure that wandered off this way and that way, turned to the right and to the left, chose that dingy little back street where the children were playing in the road, and so She roused herself impatiently. She walked rapidly along Holborn. Soon she turned and walked as rapidly in the other direction. This indecision was not merely odious, but had something that alarmed her about it, as she had been alarmed slightly once or twice already that day; she felt unable to cope with the strength of her own desires. To a person controlled by habit, there was humiliation as well as alarm in this sudden release of what appeared to be a very powerful as well as an unreasonable force. An aching in the muscles of her right hand now showed her that she was crushing her gloves and the map of Norfolk in a grip sufficient to crack a more solid object. She relaxed her grasp; she looked anxiously at the faces of the passers-by to see whether their eyes rested on her for a moment longer than was natural, or with any curiosity. But having smoothed out her gloves, and done what she could to look as usual, she forgot spectators, and was once more given up to her desperate desire to find Ralph Denham. It was a desire now wild, irrational, unexplained, resembling something felt in childhood. Once more she blamed herself bitterly for her carelessness. But finding herself opposite the Tube station, she pulled herself up and took counsel swiftly, as of old. It flashed upon her that she would go at once to Mary Datchet, and ask her to give her Ralph s address. The decision was a relief, not only in giving her a goal, but in providing her with a rational excuse for her own actions. It gave her a goal certainly, but the fact of having a goal led her to dwell exclusively upon her obsession; so that when she rang the bell of Mary s flat, she did not for a moment consider how this demand would strike Mary. To her extreme annoyance Mary was not at home; a charwoman opened the door. All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation to wait. She waited for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, and spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the other without intermission. When she heard Mary s key in the door she paused in front of the fireplace, and Mary found her standing upright, looking at once expectant and determined, like a person who has come on an errand of such importance that it must be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. "Have you had tea?" "Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other. Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her. "Why? Where is he?" she asked. "He won t have left his office." "But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried to meet him and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. So I must find him as soon as possible." Mary took in the situation at her leisure. "But why not telephone?" she said. Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strained expression relaxed, and exclaiming, "Of course! Why didn t I think of that!" she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Mary looked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharine heard, through all the superimposed weight of London, the mysterious sound of feet in her own house mounting to the little room, where she could almost see the pictures and the books; she listened with extreme intentness to the preparatory vibrations, and then established her identity. "Has Mr. Denham called?" "Yes, miss." "Did he ask for me?" "Yes. We said you were out, miss." "Did he leave any message?" "No. He went away. About twenty minutes ago, miss." Katharine hung up the receiver. She walked the length of the room in such acute disappointment that she did not at first perceive Mary s absence. Then she called in a harsh and peremptory tone: "Mary." Mary was taking off her outdoor things in the bedroom. She heard Katharine call her. "Yes," she said, "I shan t be a moment." But the moment prolonged itself, as if for some reason Mary found satisfaction in making herself not only tidy, but seemly and ornamented. A stage in her life had been accomplished in the last months which left its traces for ever upon her bearing. Youth, and the bloom of youth, had receded, leaving the purpose of her face to show itself in the hollower cheeks, the firmer lips, the eyes no longer spontaneously observing at random, but narrowed upon an end which was not near at hand. This woman was now a serviceable human being, mistress of her own destiny, and thus, by some combination of ideas, fit to be adorned with the dignity of silver chains and glowing brooches. She came in at her leisure and asked: "Well, did you get an answer?" "He has left Chelsea already," Katharine replied. "Still, he won t be home yet," said Mary. Katharine was once more irresistibly drawn to gaze upon an imaginary map of London, to follow the twists and turns of unnamed streets. "I ll ring up his home and ask whether he s back." Mary crossed to the telephone and, after a series of brief remarks, announced: "No. His sister says he hasn t come back yet." "Ah!" She applied her ear to the telephone once more. "They ve had a message. He won t be back to dinner." "Then what is he going to do?" Very pale, and with her large eyes fixed not so much upon Mary as upon vistas of unresponding blankness, Katharine addressed herself also not so much to Mary as to the unrelenting spirit which now appeared to mock her from every quarter of her survey. After waiting a little time Mary remarked indifferently: "I really don t know." Slackly lying back in her armchair, she watched the little flames beginning to creep among the coals indifferently, as if they, too, were very distant and indifferent. Katharine looked at her indignantly and rose. "Possibly he may come here," Mary continued, without altering the abstract tone of her voice. "It would be worth your while to wait if you want to see him to-night." She bent forward and touched the wood, so that the flames slipped in between the interstices of the coal. Katharine reflected. "I ll wait half an hour," she said. Mary rose, went to the table, spread out her papers under the green-shaded lamp and, with an action that was becoming a habit, twisted a lock of hair round and round in her fingers. Once she looked unperceived at her visitor, who never moved, who sat so still, with eyes so intent, that you could almost fancy that she was watching something, some face that never looked up at her. Mary found herself unable to go on writing. She turned her eyes	was crushing her gloves and the map of Norfolk in a grip sufficient to crack a more solid object. She relaxed her grasp; she looked anxiously at the faces of the passers-by to see whether their eyes rested on her for a moment longer than was natural, or with any curiosity. But having smoothed out her gloves, and done what she could to look as usual, she forgot spectators, and was once more given up to her desperate desire to find Ralph Denham. It was a desire now wild, irrational, unexplained, resembling something felt in childhood. Once more she blamed herself bitterly for her carelessness. But finding herself opposite the Tube station, she pulled herself up and took counsel swiftly, as of old. It flashed upon her that she would go at once to Mary Datchet, and ask her to give her Ralph s address. The decision was a relief, not only in giving her a goal, but in providing her with a rational excuse for her own actions. It gave her a goal certainly, but the fact of having a goal led her to dwell exclusively upon her obsession; so that when she rang the bell of Mary s flat, she did not for a moment consider how this demand would strike Mary. To her extreme annoyance Mary was not at home; a charwoman opened the door. All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation to wait. She waited for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, and spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the other without intermission. When she heard Mary s key in the door she paused in front of the fireplace, and Mary found her standing upright, looking at once expectant and determined, like a person who has come on an errand of such importance that it must be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. "Have you had tea?" "Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other. Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her. "Why? Where is he?" she asked. "He won t have left his office." "But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried to meet him and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. So I must find him as soon as possible." Mary took in the situation at her leisure. "But why not telephone?" she said. Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strained expression relaxed, and exclaiming, "Of course! Why didn t I think of that!" she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Mary looked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharine heard, through all the superimposed weight of London, the mysterious sound of feet in her own house mounting to the little room, where she could almost see the pictures and the books; she listened with extreme intentness to the preparatory vibrations, and then established her identity. "Has Mr. Denham called?" "Yes, miss." "Did he ask for me?" "Yes. We said you were out, miss." "Did he leave any message?" "No. He went away. About twenty minutes ago, miss." Katharine hung up the receiver. She walked the length of the room in such acute disappointment that she did not at first perceive Mary s absence. Then she called in a harsh and peremptory tone: "Mary." Mary was taking off her outdoor things in the bedroom. She heard Katharine call her.	Night And Day
The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.	No speaker	we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen,"	pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the	with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very	the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of	to the lake immediately, and at the first throwing in of his net he caught four fish, and brought them directly to the sultan, who was so much the more rejoiced, as he did not expect them so soon, and ordered him four hundred pieces of gold. As soon as the sultan had the fish, he ordered them to be carried into his closet, with all that was necessary for frying them; and having shut himself up with the vizier, the minister cleaned them, put them into the pan, and when they were fried on one side, turned them upon the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of it, although I have for sixty years hunted beyond that mountain." The sultan asked the fisherman how far the lake might be from the palace. The fisherman answered it was not above three hours' journey; upon this assurance the sultan commanded all his court to take horse, and the fisherman served them for a guide. They all ascended the mountain, and at the foot of it they saw, to their great surprise, a vast plain that nobody had observed till then, and at last they came to the lake, which they found to be situated betwixt four hills, as the	coming to the lake, threw in his nets betimes next morning, took four fish like the former, and brought them to the vizier at the hour appointed. The minister took them himself, carried them to the kitchen, and shutting himself up with the cook, she cleaned them and put them on the fire. When they were fried on one side, and she had turned them upon the other, the kitchen wall again opened, and the same lady came in with the rod in her hand, struck one of the fish, spoke to it as before, and all four gave her the same answer. After they had spoken to the young lady, she overturned the frying-pan with her rod, and retired into the wall. The grand vizier being witness to what had passed, "This is too wonderful and extraordinary," said he, "to be concealed from the sultan; I will inform him of this prodigy." The sultan, being much surprised, sent immediately for the fisherman, and said to him: "Friend, cannot you bring me four more such fish?" The fisherman replied: "If your majesty will be pleased to allow me three days, I will do it." Having obtained his time, he went to the lake immediately, and at the first throwing in of his net he caught four fish, and brought them directly to the sultan, who was so much the more rejoiced, as he did not expect them so soon, and ordered him four hundred pieces of gold. As soon as the sultan had the fish, he ordered them to be carried into his closet, with all that was necessary for frying them; and having shut himself up with the vizier, the minister cleaned them, put them into the pan, and when they were fried on one side, turned them upon the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of it, although I have for sixty years hunted beyond that mountain." The sultan asked the fisherman how far the lake might be from the palace. The fisherman answered it was not above three hours' journey; upon this assurance the sultan commanded all his court to take horse, and the fisherman served them for a guide. They all ascended the mountain, and at the foot of it they saw, to their great surprise, a vast plain that nobody had observed till then, and at last they came to the lake, which they found to be situated betwixt four hills, as the fisherman had described. The water was so transparent that they observed all the fish to be like those which the fisherman had brought to the palace. The sultan stood upon the bank of the lake, and after beholding the fish with admiration, demanded of his courtiers if it were possible they had never seen this lake which was within so short a distance of the town. They all answered that they had never so much as heard of it. "Since you all agree that you never heard of it," said the sultan, "and as I am no less astonished than you are at this novelty, I am resolved not to return to my palace till I learn how this lake came here, and why all the fish in it are of four colours." Having spoken thus, he ordered his court to encamp; and immediately his pavilion and the tents of his household were planted upon the banks of the lake. When night came the sultan retired under his pavilion, and spoke to the grand vizier thus: "Vizier, my mind is uneasy; this lake transported hither, the black that appeared to us in my closet, and the fish that we heard	frying-pan, with oil, and when she thought them fried enough on one side, she turned them upon the other; but, O monstrous prodigy! scarcely were they turned, when the wall of the kitchen divided, and a young lady of wonderful beauty entered from the opening. She held a rod in her hand and was clad in flowered satin, with pendants in her ears, a necklace of large pearls, and bracelets of gold set with rubies. She moved toward the frying-pan, to the great amazement of the cook, and striking one of the fish with the end of the rod, said: "Fish, fish, are you in your duty?" The fish having answered nothing, she repeated these words, and then the four fish lifted up their heads, and replied: "Yes, yes: if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome, and are content." As soon as they had finished these words, the lady overturned the frying-pan, and returned into the open part of the wall, which closed immediately, and became as it was before. The cook was greatly frightened at what had happened, and coming a little to herself went to take up the fish that had fallen on the hearth, but found them blacker than coal and not fit to be carried to the sultan. This grievously troubled her, and she fell to weeping most bitterly. "Alas!" said she, "what will become of me? If I tell the sultan what I have seen, I am sure he will not believe me, but will be enraged against me." While she was thus bewailing herself, the grand vizier entered, and asked her if the fish were ready. She told him all that had occurred, which we may easily imagine astonished him; but without speaking a word of it to the sultan he invented an excuse that satisfied him, and sending immediately for the fisherman bid him bring four more such fish, for a misfortune had befallen the others, so that they were not fit to be carried to the royal table. The fisherman, without saying anything of what the genie had told him, told the vizier he had a great way to go for them, in order to excuse himself from bringing them that day, but said that he would certainly bring them on the morrow. Accordingly the fisherman went away by night, and coming to the lake, threw in his nets betimes next morning, took four fish like the former, and brought them to the vizier at the hour appointed. The minister took them himself, carried them to the kitchen, and shutting himself up with the cook, she cleaned them and put them on the fire. When they were fried on one side, and she had turned them upon the other, the kitchen wall again opened, and the same lady came in with the rod in her hand, struck one of the fish, spoke to it as before, and all four gave her the same answer. After they had spoken to the young lady, she overturned the frying-pan with her rod, and retired into the wall. The grand vizier being witness to what had passed, "This is too wonderful and extraordinary," said he, "to be concealed from the sultan; I will inform him of this prodigy." The sultan, being much surprised, sent immediately for the fisherman, and said to him: "Friend, cannot you bring me four more such fish?" The fisherman replied: "If your majesty will be pleased to allow me three days, I will do it." Having obtained his time, he went to the lake immediately, and at the first throwing in of his net he caught four fish, and brought them directly to the sultan, who was so much the more rejoiced, as he did not expect them so soon, and ordered him four hundred pieces of gold. As soon as the sultan had the fish, he ordered them to be carried into his closet, with all that was necessary for frying them; and having shut himself up with the vizier, the minister cleaned them, put them into the pan, and when they were fried on one side, turned them upon the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of it, although I have for sixty years hunted beyond that mountain." The sultan asked the fisherman how far the lake might be from the palace. The fisherman answered it was not above three hours' journey; upon this assurance the sultan commanded all his court to take horse, and the fisherman served them for a guide. They all ascended the mountain, and at the foot of it they saw, to their great surprise, a vast plain that nobody had observed till then, and at last they came to the lake, which they found to be situated betwixt four hills, as the fisherman had described. The water was so transparent that they observed all the fish to be like those which the fisherman had brought to the palace. The sultan stood upon the bank of the lake, and after beholding the fish with admiration, demanded of his courtiers if it were possible they had never seen this lake which was within so short a distance of the town. They all answered that they had never so much as heard of it. "Since you all agree that you never heard of it," said the sultan, "and as I am no less astonished than you are at this novelty, I am resolved not to return to my palace till I learn how this lake came here, and why all the fish in it are of four colours." Having spoken thus, he ordered his court to encamp; and immediately his pavilion and the tents of his household were planted upon the banks of the lake. When night came the sultan retired under his pavilion, and spoke to the grand vizier thus: "Vizier, my mind is uneasy; this lake transported hither, the black that appeared to us in my closet, and the fish that we heard speak; all these things so much excite my curiosity that I cannot resist my impatient desire to have it satisfied. To this end I am resolved to withdraw alone from the camp, and I order you to keep my absence secret: stay in my pavilion, and to-morrow morning, when the emirs and courtiers come to attend my levee, send them away and tell them that I am somewhat indisposed and wish to be alone; and the following days tell them the same thing, till I return." The grand vizier endeavoured to divert the sultan from this design; he represented to him the danger to which he might be exposed, and that all his labour might perhaps be in vain; but it was to no purpose; the sultan was resolved. He put on a suit fit for walking and took his cimeter; and as soon as he found that all was quiet in the camp, went out alone, and passed over one of the hills without much difficulty; he found the descent still more easy, and when he came to the plain, walked on till the sun arose, and then he saw before him, at a considerable distance, a vast building. He rejoiced at the sight, in hopes of receiving there the information he sought. When he drew near, he found it was a magnificent palace, or rather a strong castle, of black polished marble, and covered with fine steel, as smooth as glass. Being highly pleased that he had so speedily met with something worthy his curiosity, he stopped before the front of the castle, and considered it with attention. He then advanced toward the gate, which had two leaves, one of them open; though he might immediately have entered, yet he thought it best to knock. This he did at first softly, and waited for some time; but seeing no one, and supposing he had not been heard, he knocked harder the second time, and after that he knocked again and again, but no one yet appearing, he was exceedingly surprised; for he could not think that a castle in such repair was without inhabitants. "If there be no one in it," said he to himself, "I have nothing to fear; and if it be inhabited, I have wherewith to defend myself." At last he entered, and when he came within the porch, he cried: "Is there no one	put them on the fire. When they were fried on one side, and she had turned them upon the other, the kitchen wall again opened, and the same lady came in with the rod in her hand, struck one of the fish, spoke to it as before, and all four gave her the same answer. After they had spoken to the young lady, she overturned the frying-pan with her rod, and retired into the wall. The grand vizier being witness to what had passed, "This is too wonderful and extraordinary," said he, "to be concealed from the sultan; I will inform him of this prodigy." The sultan, being much surprised, sent immediately for the fisherman, and said to him: "Friend, cannot you bring me four more such fish?" The fisherman replied: "If your majesty will be pleased to allow me three days, I will do it." Having obtained his time, he went to the lake immediately, and at the first throwing in of his net he caught four fish, and brought them directly to the sultan, who was so much the more rejoiced, as he did not expect them so soon, and ordered him four hundred pieces of gold. As soon as the sultan had the fish, he ordered them to be carried into his closet, with all that was necessary for frying them; and having shut himself up with the vizier, the minister cleaned them, put them into the pan, and when they were fried on one side, turned them upon the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of it, although I have for sixty years hunted beyond that mountain." The sultan asked the fisherman how far the lake might be from the palace. The fisherman answered it was not above three hours' journey; upon this assurance the sultan commanded all his court to take horse, and the fisherman served them for a guide. They all ascended the mountain, and at the foot of it they saw, to their great surprise, a vast plain that nobody had observed till then, and at last they came to the lake, which they found to be situated betwixt four hills, as the fisherman had described. The water was so transparent that they observed all the fish to be like those which the fisherman had brought to the palace. The sultan stood upon the bank of the lake, and after beholding the fish with admiration, demanded of his courtiers if it were possible they had never seen this lake which was within so short a distance of the town. They all answered that they had never so much as heard of it. "Since you all agree that you never heard of it," said the sultan, "and as I am no less astonished than you are at this novelty, I am resolved not to return to my palace till I learn how this lake came here, and why all the fish in it are of four colours." Having spoken thus, he ordered his court to encamp; and immediately his pavilion and the tents of his household were planted upon the banks of the lake. When night came the sultan retired under his pavilion, and spoke to the grand vizier thus: "Vizier, my mind is uneasy; this lake transported hither, the black that appeared to us in my closet, and the fish that we heard speak; all these things so much excite my curiosity that I cannot resist my impatient desire to have it satisfied. To this end I am resolved to withdraw alone from the camp, and I order you to keep my absence secret: stay in my pavilion, and to-morrow morning, when the emirs and courtiers come to attend my levee, send them away and tell them that I am somewhat indisposed and wish to be alone; and the following days tell them the same thing, till I return." The grand vizier endeavoured to divert the sultan from this design;	Arabian Nights (2)
The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.	No speaker	how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake,	I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I	Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes,	live for a while until it blows over.” “It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” “Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.” “Really.” “Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” “Stay long?” “No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.” “I know I didn’t.” “Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.” “Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” Myrtle considered. “I	can’t stand them? If I was them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.” “Doesn’t she like Wilson either?” The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene. “You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce.” Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie. “When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over.” “It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” “Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.” “Really.” “Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” “Stay long?” “No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.” “I know I didn’t.” “Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.” “Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” Myrtle considered. “I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.” “You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine. “Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there.” She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection. “The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew	nodded. “I’m scared of him. I’d hate to have him get anything on me.” This absorbing information about my neighbour was interrupted by Mrs. McKee’s pointing suddenly at Catherine: “Chester, I think you could do something with her,” she broke out, but Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom. “I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start.” “Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?” “Do what?” she asked, startled. “You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like that.” Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear: “Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.” “Can’t they?” “Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.” “Doesn’t she like Wilson either?” The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene. “You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce.” Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie. “When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over.” “It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” “Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.” “Really.” “Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” “Stay long?” “No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.” “I know I didn’t.” “Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.” “Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” Myrtle considered. “I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.” “You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine. “Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there.” She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection. “The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to beat the band all afternoon.” “She really ought to get away from him,” resumed Catherine to me. “They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the first sweetie she ever had.” The bottle of whisky—a second one—was now in constant demand by all present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight, but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy	their own homes.” “I like your dress,” remarked Mrs. McKee, “I think it’s adorable.” Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in disdain. “It’s just a crazy old thing,” she said. “I just slip it on sometimes when I don’t care what I look like.” “But it looks wonderful on you, if you know what I mean,” pursued Mrs. McKee. “If Chester could only get you in that pose I think he could make something of it.” We all looked in silence at Mrs. Wilson, who removed a strand of hair from over her eyes and looked back at us with a brilliant smile. Mr. McKee regarded her intently with his head on one side, and then moved his hand back and forth slowly in front of his face. “I should change the light,” he said after a moment. “I’d like to bring out the modelling of the features. And I’d try to get hold of all the back hair.” “I wouldn’t think of changing the light,” cried Mrs. McKee. “I think it’s—” Her husband said “Sh!” and we all looked at the subject again, whereupon Tom Buchanan yawned audibly and got to his feet. “You McKees have something to drink,” he said. “Get some more ice and mineral water, Myrtle, before everybody goes to sleep.” “I told that boy about the ice.” Myrtle raised her eyebrows in despair at the shiftlessness of the lower orders. “These people! You have to keep after them all the time.” She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to the dog, kissed it with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there. “I’ve done some nice things out on Long Island,” asserted Mr. McKee. Tom looked at him blankly. “Two of them we have framed downstairs.” “Two what?” demanded Tom. “Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.” The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the couch. “Do you live down on Long Island, too?” she inquired. “I live at West Egg.” “Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named Gatsby’s. Do you know him?” “I live next door to him.” “Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s. That’s where all his money comes from.” “Really?” She nodded. “I’m scared of him. I’d hate to have him get anything on me.” This absorbing information about my neighbour was interrupted by Mrs. McKee’s pointing suddenly at Catherine: “Chester, I think you could do something with her,” she broke out, but Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom. “I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start.” “Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?” “Do what?” she asked, startled. “You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like that.” Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear: “Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.” “Can’t they?” “Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.” “Doesn’t she like Wilson either?” The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene. “You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce.” Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie. “When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over.” “It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” “Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.” “Really.” “Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” “Stay long?” “No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.” “I know I didn’t.” “Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.” “Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” Myrtle considered. “I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.” “You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine. “Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there.” She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection. “The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to beat the band all afternoon.” “She really ought to get away from him,” resumed Catherine to me. “They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the first sweetie she ever had.” The bottle of whisky—a second one—was now in constant demand by all present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight, but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I saw him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life. Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine, and suddenly her warm breath poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom. “It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white shirtfront pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into a taxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t getting into a subway train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live forever; you can’t live forever.’ ” She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her artificial laughter. “My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m through with it. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a wave, and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ashtrays where you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s grave that’ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won’t forget all the things I got to do.” It was nine o’clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the spot of dried lather that had worried me all the afternoon. The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly. People disappeared, reappeared, made plans	his attention to Tom. “I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start.” “Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?” “Do what?” she asked, startled. “You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like that.” Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear: “Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.” “Can’t they?” “Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.” “Doesn’t she like Wilson either?” The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene. “You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce.” Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie. “When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over.” “It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” “Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.” “Really.” “Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” “Stay long?” “No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.” “I know I didn’t.” “Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.” “Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” Myrtle considered. “I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.” “You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine. “Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there.” She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection. “The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to beat	The Great Gatsby
"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."	Dorian Gray	was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said	the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!"	have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t	me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain	really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason!	I got this offer from Paris, I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! The painter s absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. CHAPTER X. When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid	weeks went on, and I grew more and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman s cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian s barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the water s silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been what art should be unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! The painter s absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. CHAPTER X. When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his guard. Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was that merely his own fancy? After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He asked her for the key of the schoolroom. "The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?" she exclaimed. "Why, it is full of dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed." "I don t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key." "Well, sir, you ll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it hasn t been opened for nearly five years not since his lordship died." He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of him. "That does not matter," he answered. "I simply want to see the place that is all. Give me the key." "And here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the key. I ll have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don t think of living up there, sir, and you so comfortable here?" "No, no," he cried petulantly. "Thank you, Leaf. That will do." She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles. As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round the room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption	from Paris, I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! The painter s absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. CHAPTER X. When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
“All right,”	Tom	the advertisement of the man—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>broke in Tom quickly, “I’m	went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to	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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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.”	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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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	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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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 sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the	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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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 sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. “Yes.” “Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your	“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 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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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 sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. “Yes.” “Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.” The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. “I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected. “Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore nowadays.” A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face. “Come on, Daisy,” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.” He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm. “You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.” She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind. “Did you see that?” demanded Tom. “See what?” He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along. “You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am, but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science—” He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from the edge of theoretical abyss. “I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I could have gone deeper if I’d known—” “Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously. “What?” Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. “A medium?” “About Gatsby.” “About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small investigation of his past.” “And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully. “An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit.” “Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.” “Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tom contemptuously, “or something like that.” “Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?” demanded Jordan crossly. “Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows where!” We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded	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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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 sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. “Yes.” “Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.” The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. “I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected. “Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore nowadays.” A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face. “Come on,	The Great Gatsby
sighed the Hatter.	No speaker	"The fourth." "Two days wrong!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"I told you butter wouldn't	a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added	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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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	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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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	least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what 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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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	round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what 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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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	March Hare was said to live. "I've seen hatters before," she said to herself; "the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what 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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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. "And ever since that," 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,	to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what 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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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,	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."	Mr. Knightley	without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could	given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that	question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That	said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--" "you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to	marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. "I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--" "you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second." Mr. Knightley grew angry. "That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--" "Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her." Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward	roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own. With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. "I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--" "you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second." Mr. Knightley grew angry. "That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--" "Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her." Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top. While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole. Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest	do it, even without being in love." "Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously." "I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of things, occur to him." "Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told her so." "There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner." "You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment--I believe nothing of the pianoforte--and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax." They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;--and at the same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance. She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprize--a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual followed. He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own. With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. "I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--" "you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second." Mr. Knightley grew angry. "That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--" "Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her." Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top. While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole. Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were a couple worth looking at. Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done. "Perhaps it is as well," said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to her carriage. "I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me, after yours." CHAPTER IX Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted the Coles--worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!--And left a name behind her that would not soon die away. Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue. The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a half. She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted. "Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!" "Don't class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her's, than a lamp is like sunshine." "Oh!	denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own. With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. "I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--" "you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second." Mr. Knightley grew angry. "That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--" "Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her." Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top. While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole. Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were a couple worth looking at. Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have	Emma
"No,"	Hercule Poirot	my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your	will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr.	that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at	that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct,	doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it." "Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?" "Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely." "What little idea?" "Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name" "No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild such a dreadful idea into my head!" "I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so it's too monstrous, too impossible. It _must_ be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it,	try." With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to Poirot's request for a few minutes' conversation. We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door. "Well, Monsieur Poirot," said Miss Howard impatiently, "what is it? Out with it. I'm busy." "Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?" "Yes, I do." The lady nodded. "And I told you I'd help you with pleasure to hang Alfred Inglethorp." "Ah!" Poirot studied her seriously. "Miss Howard, I will ask you one question. I beg of you to reply to it truthfully." "Never tell lies," replied Miss Howard. "It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You needn't think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I'll admit that it wasn't he who bought strychnine at the chemist's shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning." "That is arsenic not strychnine," said Poirot mildly. "What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I'm convinced he did it, it doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it." "Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?" "Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely." "What little idea?" "Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name" "No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild such a dreadful idea into my head!" "I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so it's too monstrous, too impossible. It _must_ be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing." Poirot nodded, as if satisfied. "I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end." "Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to to" She faltered. "You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you." "And that is?" "You will watch!" Evelyn Howard bowed her head. "Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always watching always hoping I shall be proved wrong." "If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot. "No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?" "I don't know, I don't know" "Come now." "It could be hushed up." "There must be no hushing up." "But Emily herself" She broke off. "Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy	chest upstairs, when he was Shah of Persia?" "He did have a beard, sir," replied Dorcas, smiling. "And well I know it, for he borrowed two skeins of my black wool to make it with! And I'm sure it looked wonderfully natural at a distance. I didn't know as there was a beard up there at all. It must have been got quite lately, I think. There was a red wig, I know, but nothing else in the way of hair. Burnt corks they use mostly though tis messy getting it off again. Miss Cynthia was a nigger once, and, oh, the trouble she had." "So Dorcas knows nothing about that black beard," said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked out into the hall again. "Do you think it is _the_ one?" I whispered eagerly. Poirot nodded. "I do. You notice it had been trimmed?" "No." "Yes. It was cut exactly the shape of Mr. Inglethorp's, and I found one or two snipped hairs. Hastings, this affair is very deep." "Who put it in the chest, I wonder?" "Someone with a good deal of intelligence," remarked Poirot dryly. "You realize that he chose the one place in the house to hide it where its presence would not be remarked? Yes, he is intelligent. But we must be more intelligent. We must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all." I acquiesced. "There, _mon ami_, you will be of great assistance to me." I was pleased with the compliment. There had been times when I hardly thought that Poirot appreciated me at my true worth. "Yes," he continued, staring at me thoughtfully, "you will be invaluable." This was naturally gratifying, but Poirot's next words were not so welcome. "I must have an ally in the house," he observed reflectively. "You have me," I protested. "True, but you are not sufficient." I was hurt, and showed it. Poirot hurried to explain himself. "You do not quite take my meaning. You are known to be working with me. I want somebody who is not associated with us in any way." "Oh, I see. How about John?" "No, I think not." "The dear fellow isn't perhaps very bright," I said thoughtfully. "Here comes Miss Howard," said Poirot suddenly. "She is the very person. But I am in her black books, since I cleared Mr. Inglethorp. Still, we can but try." With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to Poirot's request for a few minutes' conversation. We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door. "Well, Monsieur Poirot," said Miss Howard impatiently, "what is it? Out with it. I'm busy." "Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?" "Yes, I do." The lady nodded. "And I told you I'd help you with pleasure to hang Alfred Inglethorp." "Ah!" Poirot studied her seriously. "Miss Howard, I will ask you one question. I beg of you to reply to it truthfully." "Never tell lies," replied Miss Howard. "It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You needn't think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I'll admit that it wasn't he who bought strychnine at the chemist's shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning." "That is arsenic not strychnine," said Poirot mildly. "What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I'm convinced he did it, it doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it." "Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?" "Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely." "What little idea?" "Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name" "No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild such a dreadful idea into my head!" "I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so it's too monstrous, too impossible. It _must_ be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing." Poirot nodded, as if satisfied. "I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end." "Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to to" She faltered. "You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you." "And that is?" "You will watch!" Evelyn Howard bowed her head. "Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always watching always hoping I shall be proved wrong." "If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot. "No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?" "I don't know, I don't know" "Come now." "It could be hushed up." "There must be no hushing up." "But Emily herself" She broke off. "Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy of you." Suddenly she took her face from her hands. "Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!" She flung her head up proudly. "_This_ is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may." And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room. "There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart." I did not reply. "Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored." "You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about," I observed coldly. "Perhaps you don't realize that _I_ am still in the dark." "Really? Is that so, _mon ami?_" "Yes. Enlighten me, will you?" Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly. "No, my friend." "Oh, look here, why not?" "Two is enough for a secret." "Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me." "I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is a question of ideas." "Still, it would be interesting to know." Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again shook his head. "You see," he said sadly, "_you_ have no instincts." "It was intelligence you were requiring just now," I pointed out. "The two often go together," said Poirot enigmatically. The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries as no doubt I should I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result. There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself. CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN I had had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet. It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did	you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You needn't think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I'll admit that it wasn't he who bought strychnine at the chemist's shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning." "That is arsenic not strychnine," said Poirot mildly. "What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I'm convinced he did it, it doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it." "Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?" "Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely." "What little idea?" "Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name" "No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild such a dreadful idea into my head!" "I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so it's too monstrous, too impossible. It _must_ be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing." Poirot nodded, as if satisfied. "I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end." "Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to to" She faltered. "You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you."	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"Certainly."	Mr. Mcbryde	reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several	half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in	entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech	nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ." "I didn't catch that answer." He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it,	her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ." "I didn't catch that answer." He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the	she feared not even that. A new and unknown sensation protected her, like magnificent armour. She didn't think what had happened, or even remember in the ordinary way of memory, but she returned to the Marabar Hills, and spoke from them across a sort of darkness to Mr. McBryde. The fatal day recurred, in every detail, but now she was of it and not of it at the same time, and this double relation gave it indescribable splendour. Why had she thought the expedition "dull"? Now the sun rose again, the elephant waited, the pale masses of the rock flowed round her and presented the first cave; she entered, and a match was reflected in the polished walls all beautiful and significant, though she had been blind to it at the time. Questions were asked, and to each she found the exact reply; yes, she had noticed the "Tank of the Dagger," but not known its name; yes, Mrs. Moore had been tired after the first cave and sat in the shadow of a great rock, near the dried-up mud. Smoothly the voice in the distance proceeded, leading along the paths of truth, and the airs from the punkah behind her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ." "I didn't catch that answer." He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave." The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then picked them up and said calmly: "Now, Miss Quested, let us go on. I will read you the words of the deposition which you signed two hours later in my bungalow." "Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the Magistrate in charge of the case, and realize their extreme gravity. Remember you speak on oath, Miss Quested." "Dr. Aziz never" "I stop these proceedings on medical grounds," cried the Major on a word from Turton, and all the English rose from their chairs at once, large white figures behind which the little magistrate was hidden. The Indians rose too, hundreds of things went on at once, so that afterwards each person gave a different account of the catastrophe. "You withdraw the charge? Answer me," shrieked the representative of Justice. Something that she did not understand took hold of the girl and pulled her through. Though the vision was over, and she had returned to the insipidity of the world,	coming as it does upon an attempt to intimidate our only other European witness, Mr. Fielding. Mr. Mahmoud Ali would have said nothing had not Mrs. Moore been claimed as a witness by the police." He sat down. "An extraneous element is being introduced into the case," said the Magistrate. "I must repeat that as a witness Mrs. Moore does not exist. Neither you, Mr. Amritrao, nor, Mr. McBryde, you, have any right to surmise what that lady would have said. She is not here, and consequently she can say nothing." "Well, I withdraw my reference," said the Superintendent wearily. "I would have done so fifteen minutes ago if I had been given the chance. She is not of the least importance to me." "I have already withdrawn it for the defence." He added with forensic humour: "Perhaps you can persuade the gentlemen outside to withdraw it too," for the refrain in the street continued. "I am afraid my powers do not extend so far," said Das, smiling. So peace was restored, and when Adela came to give her evidence the atmosphere was quieter than it had been since the beginning of the trial. Experts were not surprised. There is no stay in your native. He blazes up over a minor point, and has nothing left for the crisis. What he seeks is a grievance, and this he had found in the supposed abduction of an old lady. He would now be less aggrieved when Aziz was deported. But the crisis was still to come. Adela had always meant to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and she had rehearsed this as a difficult task difficult, because her disaster in the cave was connected, though by a thread, with another part of her life, her engagement to Ronny. She had thought of love just before she went in, and had innocently asked Aziz what marriage was like, and she supposed that her question had roused evil in him. To recount this would have been incredibly painful, it was the one point she wanted to keep obscure; she was willing to give details that would have distressed other girls, but this story of her private failure she dared not allude to, and she dreaded being examined in public in case something came out. But as soon as she rose to reply, and heard the sound of her own voice, she feared not even that. A new and unknown sensation protected her, like magnificent armour. She didn't think what had happened, or even remember in the ordinary way of memory, but she returned to the Marabar Hills, and spoke from them across a sort of darkness to Mr. McBryde. The fatal day recurred, in every detail, but now she was of it and not of it at the same time, and this double relation gave it indescribable splendour. Why had she thought the expedition "dull"? Now the sun rose again, the elephant waited, the pale masses of the rock flowed round her and presented the first cave; she entered, and a match was reflected in the polished walls all beautiful and significant, though she had been blind to it at the time. Questions were asked, and to each she found the exact reply; yes, she had noticed the "Tank of the Dagger," but not known its name; yes, Mrs. Moore had been tired after the first cave and sat in the shadow of a great rock, near the dried-up mud. Smoothly the voice in the distance proceeded, leading along the paths of truth, and the airs from the punkah behind her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ." "I didn't catch that answer." He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave." The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then picked them up and said calmly: "Now, Miss Quested, let us go on. I will read you the words of the deposition which you signed two hours later in my bungalow." "Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the Magistrate in charge of the case, and realize their extreme gravity. Remember you speak on oath, Miss Quested." "Dr. Aziz never" "I stop these proceedings on medical grounds," cried the Major on a word from Turton, and all the English rose from their chairs at once, large white figures behind which the little magistrate was hidden. The Indians rose too, hundreds of things went on at once, so that afterwards each person gave a different account of the catastrophe. "You withdraw the charge? Answer me," shrieked the representative of Justice. Something that she did not understand took hold of the girl and pulled her through. Though the vision was over, and she had returned to the insipidity of the world, she remembered what she had learnt. Atonement and confession they could wait. It was in hard prosaic tones that she said, "I withdraw everything." "Enough sit down. Mr. McBryde, do you wish to continue in the face of this?" The Superintendent gazed at his witness as if she was a broken machine, and said, "Are you mad?" "Don't question her, sir; you have no longer the right." "Give me time to consider" "Sahib, you will have to withdraw; this becomes a scandal," boomed the Nawab Bahadur suddenly from the back of the court. "He shall not," shouted Mrs. Turton against the gathering tumult. "Call the other witnesses; we're none of us safe" Ronny tried to check her, and she gave him an irritable blow, then screamed insults at Adela. The Superintendent moved to the support of his friends, saying nonchalantly to the Magistrate as he did so, "Right, I withdraw." Mr. Das rose, nearly dead with the strain. He had controlled the case, just controlled it. He had shown that an Indian can preside. To those who could hear him he said, "The prisoner is released without one stain on his character; the question of costs will be decided elsewhere." And then the flimsy framework of the court broke up, the shouts of derision and rage culminated, people screamed and cursed, kissed one another, wept passionately. Here were the English, whom their servants protected, there Aziz fainted in Hamidullah's arms. Victory on this side, defeat on that complete for one moment was the antithesis. Then life returned to its complexities, person after person struggled out of the room to their various purposes, and before long no one remained on the scene of the fantasy but the beautiful naked god. Unaware that anything unusual had occurred, he continued to pull the cord of his punkah, to gaze at the empty dais and the overturned special chairs, and rhythmically to agitate the clouds of descending dust. CHAPTER XXV Miss Quested had renounced her own people. Turning from them, she was drawn into a mass of Indians of the shopkeeping class, and carried by them towards the public exit of the court. The faint, indescribable smell of the bazaars invaded her, sweeter than a London slum, yet more disquieting: a tuft of scented cotton wool, wedged in an old man's ear, fragments of pan between his black teeth, odorous powders, oils the Scented	match was reflected in the polished walls all beautiful and significant, though she had been blind to it at the time. Questions were asked, and to each she found the exact reply; yes, she had noticed the "Tank of the Dagger," but not known its name; yes, Mrs. Moore had been tired after the first cave and sat in the shadow of a great rock, near the dried-up mud. Smoothly the voice in the distance proceeded, leading along the paths of truth, and the airs from the punkah behind her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ." "I didn't catch that answer." He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave." The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then picked them up and said calmly: "Now, Miss Quested, let us go on. I will read you the words of the deposition which you signed two hours later in my bungalow." "Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the Magistrate in charge of the case, and realize their extreme gravity. Remember you speak on oath, Miss Quested." "Dr. Aziz never" "I stop these proceedings on medical grounds," cried the Major on a word from Turton, and all the English rose from their chairs at once, large white figures behind which the little magistrate was hidden. The Indians rose too, hundreds of things went on at once, so that afterwards each person gave a different account of the catastrophe. "You withdraw	A Passage To India
"We had some luck butting that tree."	Ronny Heaslop	are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . .	it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is	Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said	The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right	a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow	the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!" He fell asleep. Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed along a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl	country, but he paid little heed. Women who exposed their face became by that one act so mysterious to him that he took them at the valuation of their men folk rather than at his own. Perhaps they were not immoral, and anyhow they were not his affair. On seeing the City Magistrate alone with a maiden at twilight, he had borne down on them with hospitable intent. He had a new little car, and wished to place it at their disposal; the City Magistrate would decide whether the offer was acceptable. Ronny was by this time rather ashamed of his curtness to Aziz and Godbole, and here was an opportunity of showing that he could treat Indians with consideration when they deserved it. So he said to Adela, with the same sad friendliness that he had employed when discussing the bird, "Would half an hour's spin entertain you at all?" "Oughtn't we to get back to the bungalow." "Why?" He gazed at her. "I think perhaps I ought to see your mother and discuss future plans." "That's as you like, but there's no hurry, is there?" "Let me take you to the bungalow, and first the little spin," cried the old man, and hastened to the car. "He may show you some aspect of the country I can't, and he's a real loyalist. I thought you might care for a bit of a change." Determined to give him no more trouble, she agreed, but her desire to see India had suddenly decreased. There had been a factitious element in it. How should they seat themselves in the car? The elegant grandson had to be left behind. The Nawab Bahadur got up in front, for he had no intention of neighbouring an English girl. "Despite my advanced years, I am learning to drive," he said. "Man can learn everything if he will but try." And foreseeing a further difficulty, he added, "I do not do the actual steering. I sit and ask my chauffeur questions, and thus learn the reason for everything that is done before I do it myself. By this method serious and I may say ludicrous accidents, such as befell one of my compatriots during that delightful reception at the English Club, are avoided. Our good Panna Lal! I hope, sahib, that great damage was not done to your flowers. Let us have our little spin down the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!" He fell asleep. Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed along a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash. Harris, well done!" "A smash, sahib, that would not have taken place had he obeyed and taken us Gangavati side, instead of Marabar." "My fault that. I told him to come this way because the road's better. Mr. Lesley has made it pukka right up to the hills." "Ah, now I begin to understand." Seeming to pull himself together, he apologized slowly and elaborately for the accident. Ronny murmured, "Not at all," but apologies were his due, and should have started sooner: because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab Bahadur had not come out very well. At that moment a large car approached from the opposite direction. Ronny advanced a few steps down the road, and with authority in his voice and gesture stopped it. It bore the inscription "Mudkul State" across its bonnet. All friskiness and friendliness, Miss Derek sat inside. "Mr. Heaslop, Miss Quested, what are you holding up an innocent female for?" "We've had a breakdown." "But how putrid!" "We ran into a hyena!" "How absolutely rotten!" "Can you give us a lift?" "Yes, indeed." "Take me too," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Heh, what about me?" cried Mr. Harris. "Now what's all this? I'm not an omnibus," said Miss Derek with decision. "I've a harmonium and two dogs in here with me as it is. I'll take three of you if one'll sit in front and nurse a pug. No more." "I will sit in front," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Then hop in: I've no notion who you are." "Heh no, what about my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night." Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than	I am learning to drive," he said. "Man can learn everything if he will but try." And foreseeing a further difficulty, he added, "I do not do the actual steering. I sit and ask my chauffeur questions, and thus learn the reason for everything that is done before I do it myself. By this method serious and I may say ludicrous accidents, such as befell one of my compatriots during that delightful reception at the English Club, are avoided. Our good Panna Lal! I hope, sahib, that great damage was not done to your flowers. Let us have our little spin down the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!" He fell asleep. Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed along a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive	A Passage To India
"Yes, China. What of that?"	Boatswain	Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"China!" cried Jem. "Why, I	get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round	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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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	to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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	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?" said Jem, with a groan. "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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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	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?" said Jem, with a groan. "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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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	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?" said Jem, with a groan. "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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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 that he did not feel so weak and giddy, while, by the time he was on deck, it as suddenly occurred to him that he could eat some breakfast. "I thought as much," said Jem. "Lookye there, Mas' Don. Did you ever see such a miserable sneak?" For there, not half-a-dozen yards away, was the sinister-looking sailor talking to the bluff boatswain. "Oh, yes, of course," said the latter, as he caught sight of the recruits. "So does every man who is pressed, and if he does	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?" said Jem, with a groan. "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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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.	Don Lavington
"I never went to him,"	The Mock Turtle	an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with	Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing	Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice,	the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea	Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his	sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that." "With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--"	to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here," thought Alice, as she went slowly after it: "I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it her," said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: "sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished." So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, "I don't see how he can _ever_ finish, if he doesn't begin." But she waited patiently. "Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of "Hjckrrh!" from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, "Thank you, sir, for your interesting story," but she could not help thinking there _must_ be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. "When we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked. "We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that." "With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?	we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked. "We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that." "With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"	Ralph Denham	without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t	me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about	she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy	Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of	seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or	but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams. "Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing." The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or deeds that might have made her think badly of him. In his present mood instances came but too quickly, and on top of them this culminating proof of his baseness that he had asked her to marry him when his reasons for such a proposal were selfish and half-hearted. "You needn t answer," he said grimly. "There are reasons enough, I know. But must they kill our friendship, Mary? Let me keep that, at least." "Oh," she thought to herself, with a sudden rush of anguish which threatened disaster to her self-respect, "it has come to this to this when I could have given him everything!" "Yes, we can still be friends," she said, with what firmness she could muster. "I shall want your friendship," he said. He added, "If you find it possible, let me see you as often as you can. The oftener the better. I shall want your help." She promised this, and they went on to talk calmly of things that had no reference to their feelings a talk which, in its constraint, was infinitely sad to both of them. One more reference was made to the state of things between them late that night, when	t be harder to earn a living there than it is here. However, that s not the point. The point is, Mary, that I want to marry you. Well, what do you say?" He spoke firmly, waited for no answer, and took her arm in his. "You know me by this time, the good and the bad," he went on. "You know my tempers. I ve tried to let you know my faults. Well, what do you say, Mary?" She said nothing, but this did not seem to strike him. "In most ways, at least in the important ways, as you said, we know each other and we think alike. I believe you are the only person in the world I could live with happily. And if you feel the same about me as you do, don t you, Mary? we should make each other happy." Here he paused, and seemed to be in no hurry for an answer; he seemed, indeed, to be continuing his own thoughts. "Yes, but I m afraid I couldn t do it," Mary said at last. The casual and rather hurried way in which she spoke, together with the fact that she was saying the exact opposite of what he expected her to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly. "You couldn t do it?" he asked. "No, I couldn t marry you," she replied. "You don t care for me?" She made no answer. "Well, Mary," he said, with a curious laugh, "I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did." They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: "I don t believe you, Mary. You re not telling me the truth." "I m too tired to argue, Ralph," she replied, turning her head away from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams. "Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing." The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or deeds that might have made her think badly of him. In his present mood instances came but too quickly, and on top of them this culminating proof of his baseness that he had asked her to marry him when his reasons for such a proposal were selfish and half-hearted. "You needn t answer," he said grimly. "There are reasons enough, I know. But must they kill our friendship, Mary? Let me keep that, at least." "Oh," she thought to herself, with a sudden rush of anguish which threatened disaster to her self-respect, "it has come to this to this when I could have given him everything!" "Yes, we can still be friends," she said, with what firmness she could muster. "I shall want your friendship," he said. He added, "If you find it possible, let me see you as often as you can. The oftener the better. I shall want your help." She promised this, and they went on to talk calmly of things that had no reference to their feelings a talk which, in its constraint, was infinitely sad to both of them. One more reference was made to the state of things between them late that night, when Elizabeth had gone to her room, and the two young men had stumbled off to bed in such a state of sleep that they hardly felt the floor beneath their feet after a day s shooting. Mary drew her chair a little nearer to the fire, for the logs were burning low, and at this time of night it was hardly worth while to replenish them. Ralph was reading, but she had noticed for some time that his eyes instead of following the print were fixed rather above the page with an intensity of gloom that came to weigh upon her mind. She had not weakened in her resolve not to give way, for reflection had only made her more bitterly certain that, if she gave way, it would be to her own wish and not to his. But she had determined that there was no reason why he should suffer if her reticence were the cause of his suffering. Therefore, although she found it painful, she spoke: "You asked me if I had changed my mind about you, Ralph," she said. "I think there s only one thing. When you asked me to marry you, I don t think you meant it. That made me angry for the moment. Before, you d always spoken the truth." Ralph s book slid down upon his knee and fell upon the floor. He rested his forehead on his hand and looked into the fire. He was trying to recall the exact words in which he had made his proposal to Mary. "I never said I loved you," he said at last. She winced; but she respected him for saying what he did, for this, after all, was a fragment of the truth which she had vowed to live by. "And to me marriage without love doesn t seem worth while," she said. "Well, Mary, I m not going to press you," he said. "I see you don t want to marry me. But love don t we all talk a great deal of nonsense about it? What does one mean? I believe I care for you more genuinely than nine men out of ten care for the women they re in love with. It s only a story one makes up in one s mind about another person, and one knows all the time it isn t true. Of course one knows;	to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly. "You couldn t do it?" he asked. "No, I couldn t marry you," she replied. "You don t care for me?" She made no answer. "Well, Mary," he said, with a curious laugh, "I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did." They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: "I don t believe you, Mary. You re not telling me the truth." "I m too tired to argue, Ralph," she replied, turning her head away from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams. "Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing." The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or deeds that might have made her think badly of him. In his present mood instances came but too quickly, and on top of them this culminating proof of his baseness that he had asked her to marry him when his reasons for such a proposal were selfish and half-hearted. "You needn t answer," he said grimly. "There are reasons enough, I know. But must	Night And Day
said Tibby.	No speaker	out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened	were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up	meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a	and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you	which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin s beside a landscape of Leader s, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming." They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you ve never--" She pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I can t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ve got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards." And then, turning her face to her sister s, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, "Oh, really--" She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. "Don t," sobbed Helen, "don t, don t, Meg, don t!" She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road,	Howards End. That was something like a dear little house! Didn t you think so, Aunt Juley?" "I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs. Munt, with a gracious dignity. "I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn t likely I should remember much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom." "Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all seems! And in the autumn there began that anti-Pauline movement--you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul." "You yet may," said Frieda despondently. Helen shook her head. "The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I m certain of anything it s of that." "One is certain of nothing but the truth of one s own emotions." The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin s beside a landscape of Leader s, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming." They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you ve never--" She pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I can t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ve got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards." And then, turning her face to her sister s, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, "Oh, really--" She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. "Don t," sobbed Helen, "don t, don t, Meg, don t!" She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. "Don t, don t do such a thing! I tell you not to--don t! I know--don t!" "What do you know?" "Panic and emptiness," sobbed Helen. "Don t!" Then Margaret thought, "Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved like this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying." She said: "But we would still see each other very--often, and you--" "It s not a thing like that," sobbed Helen. And she broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and crying. "What s happened to you?" called Margaret, following through the wind that gathers at sundown on the northern slopes of hills. "But it s stupid!" And suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape was blurred. But Helen turned back. "I don t know what s happened to either of us," said Margaret, wiping her eyes. "We must both have gone mad." Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed a little. "Look here, sit down." "All right; I ll sit down if you ll sit down." "There." (One kiss.) "Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?" "I do mean what I	she won t be overtired." "Oh, I do wonder--I do wonder whether she s taken the house." "I hope she hasn t been hasty." "So do I--oh, SO do I." "Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?" Frieda asked. "I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can t think why he doesn t keep on with it. But it s really for Evie that he went there, and now that Evie s going to be married--" "Ah!" "You ve never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How absurdly matrimonial you are!" "But sister to that Paul?" "Yes." "And to that Charles," said Mrs. Munt with feeling. "Oh, Helen, Helen, what a time that was!" Helen laughed. "Meg and I haven t got such tender hearts. If there s a chance of a cheap house, we go for it." "Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece s train. You see, it is coming towards us--coming, coming; and, when it gets to Corfe, it will actually go THROUGH the downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we walk over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it coming on the other side. Shall we?" Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the three. Margaret s train reappeared as promised, and was greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the middle distance, and there it had been planned that Tibby should meet her, and drive her, and a tea-basket, up to join them. "You see," continued Helen to her cousin, "the Wilcoxes collect houses as your Victor collects tadpoles. They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shropshire; four, Charles has a house in Hilton; and five, another near Epsom; and six, Evie will have a house when she marries, and probably a pied-a-terre in the country--which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa makes eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That was something like a dear little house! Didn t you think so, Aunt Juley?" "I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs. Munt, with a gracious dignity. "I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn t likely I should remember much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom." "Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all seems! And in the autumn there began that anti-Pauline movement--you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul." "You yet may," said Frieda despondently. Helen shook her head. "The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I m certain of anything it s of that." "One is certain of nothing but the truth of one s own emotions." The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin s beside a landscape of Leader s, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming." They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you ve never--" She pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I can t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ve got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards." And then, turning her face to her sister s, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, "Oh, really--" She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. "Don t," sobbed Helen, "don t, don t, Meg, don t!" She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. "Don t, don t do such a thing! I tell you not to--don t! I know--don t!" "What do you know?" "Panic and emptiness," sobbed Helen. "Don t!" Then Margaret thought, "Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved like this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying." She said: "But we would still see each other very--often, and you--" "It s not a thing like that," sobbed Helen. And she broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and crying. "What s happened to you?" called Margaret, following through the wind that gathers at sundown on the northern slopes of hills. "But it s stupid!" And suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape was blurred. But Helen turned back. "I don t know what s happened to either of us," said Margaret, wiping her eyes. "We must both have gone mad." Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed a little. "Look here, sit down." "All right; I ll sit down if you ll sit down." "There." (One kiss.) "Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?" "I do mean what I said. Don t; it wouldn t do." "Oh, Helen, stop saying don t ! It s ignorant. It s as if your head wasn t out of the slime. Don t is probably what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast." Helen was silent. "Well?" "Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I ll have got my head out of the slime." "That s better. Well, where shall I begin? When I arrived at Waterloo--no, I ll go back before that, because I m anxious you should know everything from the first. The first was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr. Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing, which men can t help any more than we can. You know--at least, I know in my own case--when a man has said to me, So-and-so s a pretty girl, I am seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so, and long to tweak her ear. It s a tiresome feeling, but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn t only this in Mr. Wilcox s case, I gather now." "Then you love him?" Margaret considered. "It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you," she said. "The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I ve known and liked him steadily for nearly three years." "But loved him?" Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyse feelings while they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated honestly, and said, "No." "But you will?" "Yes," said Margaret, "of that I m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me." "And have settled to marry him?" "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say." Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally. "But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?" "But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened--the	it coming on the other side. Shall we?" Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the three. Margaret s train reappeared as promised, and was greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the middle distance, and there it had been planned that Tibby should meet her, and drive her, and a tea-basket, up to join them. "You see," continued Helen to her cousin, "the Wilcoxes collect houses as your Victor collects tadpoles. They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shropshire; four, Charles has a house in Hilton; and five, another near Epsom; and six, Evie will have a house when she marries, and probably a pied-a-terre in the country--which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa makes eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That was something like a dear little house! Didn t you think so, Aunt Juley?" "I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs. Munt, with a gracious dignity. "I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn t likely I should remember much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom." "Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all seems! And in the autumn there began that anti-Pauline movement--you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul." "You yet may," said Frieda despondently. Helen shook her head. "The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I m certain of anything it s of that." "One is certain of nothing but the truth of one s own emotions." The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin s beside a landscape of Leader s, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming." They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you ve never--" She pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I can t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ve got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards." And then, turning her face to her sister s, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, "Oh, really--" She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. "Don t," sobbed Helen, "don t, don t, Meg, don t!" She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. "Don t, don t do such a thing! I tell you not to--don t! I know--don t!" "What do you know?" "Panic and emptiness," sobbed Helen. "Don t!" Then Margaret thought, "Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved like this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying." She said: "But we would still see each other very--often, and you--" "It s not a thing like that," sobbed Helen. And she broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and crying. "What s happened to you?" called Margaret, following through the wind that gathers at sundown on	Howards End
Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.	No speaker	cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs.	least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon	be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business.	is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are	for it will be in proportion to their family and income." By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering Mr. Ferrars s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on, and he said so. "This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an t the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel s general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings "Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his	wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from _her_, she would have been very glad to be spared herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. "The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income." By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering Mr. Ferrars s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on, and he said so. "This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an t the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel s general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings "Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them." "You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a faint smile. "Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw." "He spoke of its being out of repair." "Well, and whose fault is that? why don t he repair it? who should do it but himself?" They were interrupted by the servant s coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said, "Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is	informed? Is it so?;" Elinor told him that it was. "The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty," he replied, with great feeling, "of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be doing what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day s post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance; but _that_, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable. It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200 per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting it to him, will be very great. Pray assure him of it." Elinor s astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry; and _she_, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it! Her emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different cause; but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward s principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from _her_, she would have been very glad to be spared herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. "The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income." By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering Mr. Ferrars s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on, and he said so. "This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an t the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel s general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings "Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them." "You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a faint smile. "Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw." "He spoke of its being out of repair." "Well, and whose fault is that? why don t he repair it? who should do it but himself?" They were interrupted by the servant s coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said, "Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it." Marianne had left the room before the conversation began. "Certainly, ma am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention it at present to any body else." "Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. "Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn to-day." "No, ma am, not even Lucy if you please. One day s delay will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_ directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination." This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed; "Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? sure, he is the proper person." Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings s speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself." "And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you" (seeing her preparing to write.) "You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed." And away she went; but returning again in a moment, "I have just been thinking of Betty s sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady s maid, I	which together prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward s principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from _her_, she would have been very glad to be spared herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. "The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income." By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering Mr. Ferrars s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on, and he said so. "This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an t the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel s general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings "Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there	Sense And Sensibility
Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:	No speaker	for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you	talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to	staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark	I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such	dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, "that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up." She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies. "I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to." "You want to try not to?" "Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here." Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said. She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that.	me. Granny says I must certainly go." "Granny would, of course. And I say it's a shame you're going to miss the little oyster supper I'd planned for you at Delmonico's next Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lot of jolly people." She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer. "Ah--that does tempt me! Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers's I've not met a single artist since I've been here." "What kind of artists? I know one or two painters, very good fellows, that I could bring to see you if you'd allow me," said Archer boldly. "Painters? Are there painters in New York?" asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile: "That would be charming. But I was really thinking of dramatic artists, singers, actors, musicians. My husband's house was always full of them." She said the words "my husband" as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, "that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up." She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies. "I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to." "You want to try not to?" "Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here." Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said. She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that. If you knew how I hate to be different!" Her face had grown as sombre as a tragic mask. She leaned forward, clasping her knee in her thin hands, and looking away from him into remote dark distances. "I want to get away from it all," she insisted. He waited a moment and cleared his throat. "I know. Mr. Letterblair has told me." "Ah?" "That's the reason I've come. He asked me to--you see I'm in the firm." She looked slightly surprised, and then her eyes brightened. "You mean you can manage it for me? I can talk to you instead of Mr. Letterblair? Oh, that will be so much easier!" Her tone touched him, and his confidence grew with his self-satisfaction. He perceived that she had spoken of business to Beaufort simply to get rid of him; and to have routed Beaufort was something of a triumph. "I am here to talk about it," he repeated. She sat silent, her head still propped by the arm that rested on the back of the sofa. Her face looked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed by the rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of a sudden, as a pathetic	see her privately. He had therefore no one but himself to blame if she had opened her doors to other visitors; and he entered the drawing-room with the dogged determination to make Beaufort feel himself in the way, and to outstay him. The banker stood leaning against the mantelshelf, which was draped with an old embroidery held in place by brass candelabra containing church candles of yellowish wax. He had thrust his chest out, supporting his shoulders against the mantel and resting his weight on one large patent-leather foot. As Archer entered he was smiling and looking down on his hostess, who sat on a sofa placed at right angles to the chimney. A table banked with flowers formed a screen behind it, and against the orchids and azaleas which the young man recognised as tributes from the Beaufort hot-houses, Madame Olenska sat half-reclined, her head propped on a hand and her wide sleeve leaving the arm bare to the elbow. It was usual for ladies who received in the evenings to wear what were called "simple dinner dresses": a close-fitting armour of whale-boned silk, slightly open in the neck, with lace ruffles filling in the crack, and tight sleeves with a flounce uncovering just enough wrist to show an Etruscan gold bracelet or a velvet band. But Madame Olenska, heedless of tradition, was attired in a long robe of red velvet bordered about the chin and down the front with glossy black fur. Archer remembered, on his last visit to Paris, seeing a portrait by the new painter, Carolus Duran, whose pictures were the sensation of the Salon, in which the lady wore one of these bold sheath-like robes with her chin nestling in fur. There was something perverse and provocative in the notion of fur worn in the evening in a heated drawing-room, and in the combination of a muffled throat and bare arms; but the effect was undeniably pleasing. "Lord love us--three whole days at Skuytercliff!" Beaufort was saying in his loud sneering voice as Archer entered. "You'd better take all your furs, and a hot-water-bottle." "Why? Is the house so cold?" she asked, holding out her left hand to Archer in a way mysteriously suggesting that she expected him to kiss it. "No; but the missus is," said Beaufort, nodding carelessly to the young man. "But I thought her so kind. She came herself to invite me. Granny says I must certainly go." "Granny would, of course. And I say it's a shame you're going to miss the little oyster supper I'd planned for you at Delmonico's next Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lot of jolly people." She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer. "Ah--that does tempt me! Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers's I've not met a single artist since I've been here." "What kind of artists? I know one or two painters, very good fellows, that I could bring to see you if you'd allow me," said Archer boldly. "Painters? Are there painters in New York?" asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile: "That would be charming. But I was really thinking of dramatic artists, singers, actors, musicians. My husband's house was always full of them." She said the words "my husband" as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, "that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up." She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies. "I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to." "You want to try not to?" "Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here." Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said. She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that. If you knew how I hate to be different!" Her face had grown as sombre as a tragic mask. She leaned forward, clasping her knee in her thin hands, and looking away from him into remote dark distances. "I want to get away from it all," she insisted. He waited a moment and cleared his throat. "I know. Mr. Letterblair has told me." "Ah?" "That's the reason I've come. He asked me to--you see I'm in the firm." She looked slightly surprised, and then her eyes brightened. "You mean you can manage it for me? I can talk to you instead of Mr. Letterblair? Oh, that will be so much easier!" Her tone touched him, and his confidence grew with his self-satisfaction. He perceived that she had spoken of business to Beaufort simply to get rid of him; and to have routed Beaufort was something of a triumph. "I am here to talk about it," he repeated. She sat silent, her head still propped by the arm that rested on the back of the sofa. Her face looked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed by the rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of a sudden, as a pathetic and even pitiful figure. "Now we're coming to hard facts," he thought, conscious in himself of the same instinctive recoil that he had so often criticised in his mother and her contemporaries. How little practice he had had in dealing with unusual situations! Their very vocabulary was unfamiliar to him, and seemed to belong to fiction and the stage. In face of what was coming he felt as awkward and embarrassed as a boy. After a pause Madame Olenska broke out with unexpected vehemence: "I want to be free; I want to wipe out all the past." "I understand that." Her face warmed. "Then you'll help me?" "First--" he hesitated--" "perhaps I ought to know a little more." She seemed surprised. "You know about my husband--my life with him?" He made a sign of assent. "Well--then--what more is there? In this country are such things tolerated? I'm a Protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases." "Certainly not." They were both silent again, and Archer felt the spectre of Count Olenski's letter grimacing hideously between them. The letter filled only half a page, and was just what he had described it to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: the vague charge of an angry blackguard. But how much truth was behind it? Only Count Olenski's wife could tell. "I've looked through the papers you gave to Mr. Letterblair," he said at length. "Well--can there be anything more abominable?" "No." She changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand. "Of course you know," Archer continued, "that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--" "Yes--?" "He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?" It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead,	of them." She said the words "my husband" as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, "that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up." She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies. "I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to." "You want to try not to?" "Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here." Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said. She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that. If you knew how I hate to be different!" Her face had grown as sombre as a tragic mask. She leaned forward, clasping her knee in her thin hands, and looking away from him into remote dark distances. "I want to get away from it all," she insisted. He waited a moment and cleared his throat. "I know. Mr. Letterblair has told me." "Ah?" "That's the reason I've come. He asked me to--you see I'm in the firm." She looked slightly surprised, and then her eyes brightened. "You mean you can manage it for me? I can talk to you instead of Mr. Letterblair? Oh, that will be so much easier!" Her tone touched him, and his confidence grew with his self-satisfaction. He perceived that she had spoken of business to Beaufort simply to get rid of him; and to have routed Beaufort was something of a triumph. "I am here to talk about it," he repeated. She sat silent, her head still propped by the arm that rested on the back of the sofa. Her face looked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed by the rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of a sudden, as a pathetic and even pitiful figure. "Now we're coming to hard facts," he thought, conscious in himself of the same instinctive recoil that he had so often criticised in his mother and her contemporaries. How little practice he had had in dealing with unusual situations! Their very vocabulary was unfamiliar to him, and seemed to belong to fiction and the stage. In face of what was coming he felt as awkward and embarrassed as a boy. After a pause Madame Olenska broke out with unexpected vehemence: "I want to be free; I want to wipe out all the past." "I understand that." Her face warmed. "Then you'll help me?" "First--" he hesitated--" "perhaps I ought to know a little more." She seemed surprised. "You know about my husband--my life with him?" He made a sign of assent. "Well--then--what more is there? In this country are such things tolerated? I'm a Protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases." "Certainly not." They were both silent again, and Archer	The Age Of Innocence
“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”	Crimble	John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a	are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to	wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first	“As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After	Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage	visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage and addressing Hugh from the strong ground of an initiation already complete, quite sped him on the way. Hugh clearly made no attempt to veil the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while	having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?” “I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.” “Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her another motion. She indicated the small landscape that Mr. Bender had, by Lady Sandgate’s report, rapidly studied and denounced. “For what do you take that little picture?” Hugh Crimble went over and looked. “Why, don’t you know? It’s a jolly little Vandermeer of Delft.” “It’s not a base imitation?” He looked again, but appeared at a loss. “An imitation of Vandermeer?” “Mr. Bender thinks of Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage and addressing Hugh from the strong ground of an initiation already complete, quite sped him on the way. Hugh clearly made no attempt to veil the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn’t let yourself--between us all--be worked to death.” “Oh, such days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden. “They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,” he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone--!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence. She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.” “Then that assurance helps me to wonder if you don’t perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself. “I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last” --and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you	Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage and addressing Hugh from the strong ground of an initiation already complete, quite sped him on the way. Hugh clearly made no attempt to veil the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight	The Outcry
"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"	Anne Shirley	Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was	be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and	into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members	of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne	money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again	tears in her eyes. Not for worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye see those tears. "But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I saw Diana go out alone," she said mournfully that night. "I thought how splendid it would have been if Diana had only been going to study for the Entrance, too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she had cherished against him was gone--gone just when she most needed its sustaining power. It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emotion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel the old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had witnessed its last spasmodic flicker. Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it. But it was too late. And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana, should ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she hadn't been so proud and horrid! She determined to "shroud her feelings in deepest oblivion," and it may be stated here and now that she did it, so successfully that Gilbert, who possibly was not quite so indifferent as he seemed, could not console himself with any belief that Anne felt his retaliatory scorn. The only poor comfort he had was that she snubbed Charlie Sloane, unmercifully, continually, and undeservedly. Otherwise the winter passed away in a round of pleasant duties and studies. For Anne the days slipped by	is going to happen in this uncertain world, and it's just as well to be prepared. So you can join the Queen's class if you like, Anne." "Oh, Marilla, thank you." Anne flung her arms about Marilla's waist and looked up earnestly into her face. "I'm extremely grateful to you and Matthew. And I'll study as hard as I can and do my very best to be a credit to you. I warn you not to expect much in geometry, but I think I can hold my own in anything else if I work hard." "I dare say you'll get along well enough. Miss Stacy says you are bright and diligent." Not for worlds would Marilla have told Anne just what Miss Stacy had said about her; that would have been to pamper vanity. "You needn't rush to any extreme of killing yourself over your books. There is no hurry. You won't be ready to try the Entrance for a year and a half yet. But it's well to begin in time and be thoroughly grounded, Miss Stacy says." "I shall take more interest than ever in my studies now," said Anne blissfully, "because I have a purpose in life. Mr. Allan says everybody should have a purpose in life and pursue it faithfully. Only he says we must first make sure that it is a worthy purpose. I would call it a worthy purpose to want to be a teacher like Miss Stacy, wouldn't you, Marilla? I think it's a very noble profession." The Queen's class was organized in due time. Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley, Ruby Gillis, Jane Andrews, Josie Pye, Charlie Sloane, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson joined it. Diana Barry did not, as her parents did not intend to send her to Queen's. This seemed nothing short of a calamity to Anne. Never, since the night on which Minnie May had had the croup, had she and Diana been separated in anything. On the evening when the Queen's class first remained in school for the extra lessons and Anne saw Diana go slowly out with the others, to walk home alone through the Birch Path and Violet Vale, it was all the former could do to keep her seat and refrain from rushing impulsively after her chum. A lump came into her throat, and she hastily retired behind the pages of her uplifted Latin grammar to hide the tears in her eyes. Not for worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye see those tears. "But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I saw Diana go out alone," she said mournfully that night. "I thought how splendid it would have been if Diana had only been going to study for the Entrance, too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she had cherished against him was gone--gone just when she most needed its sustaining power. It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emotion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel the old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had witnessed its last spasmodic flicker. Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it. But it was too late. And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana, should ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she hadn't been so proud and horrid! She determined to "shroud her feelings in deepest oblivion," and it may be stated here and now that she did it, so successfully that Gilbert, who possibly was not quite so indifferent as he seemed, could not console himself with any belief that Anne felt his retaliatory scorn. The only poor comfort he had was that she snubbed Charlie Sloane, unmercifully, continually, and undeservedly. Otherwise the winter passed away in a round of pleasant duties and studies. For Anne the days slipped by like golden beads on the necklace of the year. She was happy, eager, interested; there were lessons to be learned and honor to be won; delightful books to read; new pieces to be practiced for the Sunday-school choir; pleasant Saturday afternoons at the manse with Mrs. Allan; and then, almost before Anne realized it, spring had come again to Green Gables and all the world was abloom once more. Studies palled just a wee bit then; the Queen's class, left behind in school while the others scattered to green lanes and leafy wood cuts and meadow byways, looked wistfully out of the windows and discovered that Latin verbs and French exercises had somehow lost the tang and zest they had possessed in the crisp winter months. Even Anne and Gilbert lagged and grew indifferent. Teacher and taught were alike glad when the term was ended and the glad vacation days stretched rosily before them. "But you've done good work this past year," Miss Stacy told them on the last evening, "and you deserve a good, jolly vacation. Have the best time you can in the out-of-door world and lay in a good stock of health and vitality and ambition to carry you through next year. It will be the tug of war, you know--the last year before the Entrance." "Are you going to be back next year, Miss Stacy?" asked Josie Pye. Josie Pye never scrupled to ask questions; in this instance the rest of the class felt grateful to her; none of them would have dared to ask it of Miss Stacy, but all wanted to, for there had been alarming rumors running at large through the school for some time that Miss Stacy was not coming back the next year--that she had been offered a position in the grade school of her own home district and meant to accept. The Queen's class listened in breathless suspense for her answer. "Yes, I think I will," said Miss Stacy. "I thought of taking another school, but I have decided to come back to Avonlea. To tell the truth, I've grown so interested in my pupils here that I found I couldn't leave them. So I'll stay and see you through." "Hurrah!" said Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon had never been so carried away by his feelings before, and he blushed uncomfortably every time he thought about it for a week. "Oh,	Entrance, too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she	Anne Of Green Gables
"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."	Mr. Hastings	it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did	depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's	the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a	Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they	"Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look	sees what do you think, _mon ami?_" I shook my head. "In a moment, he has torn the letter into long thin strips, and rolling them up into spills he thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other spills in the vase on the mantle-piece." I uttered an exclamation. "No one would think of looking there," Poirot continued. "And he will be able, at his leisure, to come back and destroy this solitary piece of evidence against him." "Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom, under our very noses?" I cried. Poirot nodded. "Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my last link,' and I owe that very fortunate discovery to you." "To me?" "Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand shook as I was straightening the ornaments on the mantelpiece?" "Yes, but I don't see" "No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I remembered that earlier in the morning, when we had been there together, I had straightened all the objects on the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, someone else had touched them." "Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was wise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth." "And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you gave me two reasons why Miss Howard could not have committed the crime!" "And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For a long time they were a stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact: that she and Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have committed the crime single-handed, but the	ignorant of where the danger lies. She decides to say nothing to her husband, but sits down and writes to her solicitor, asking him to come on the morrow, and she also determines to destroy immediately the will which she has just made. She keeps the fatal letter." "It was to discover that letter, then, that her husband forced the lock of the despatch-case?" "Yes, and from the enormous risk he ran we can see how fully he realized its importance. That letter excepted, there was absolutely nothing to connect him with the crime." "There's only one thing I can't make out, why didn't he destroy it at once when he got hold of it?" "Because he did not dare take the biggest risk of all that of keeping it on his own person." "I don't understand." "Look at it from his point of view. I have discovered that there were only five short minutes in which he could have taken it the five minutes immediately before our own arrival on the scene, for before that time Annie was brushing the stairs, and would have seen anyone who passed going to the right wing. Figure to yourself the scene! He enters the room, unlocking the door by means of one of the other doorkeys they were all much alike. He hurries to the despatch-case it is locked, and the keys are nowhere to be seen. That is a terrible blow to him, for it means that his presence in the room cannot be concealed as he had hoped. But he sees clearly that everything must be risked for the sake of that damning piece of evidence. Quickly, he forces the lock with a penknife, and turns over the papers until he finds what he is looking for." "But now a fresh dilemma arises: he dare not keep that piece of paper on him. He may be seen leaving the room he may be searched. If the paper is found on him, it is certain doom. Probably, at this minute, too, he hears the sounds below of Mr. Wells and John leaving the boudoir. He must act quickly. Where can he hide this terrible slip of paper? The contents of the waste-paper-basket are kept and in any case, are sure to be examined. There are no means of destroying it; and he dare not keep it. He looks round, and he sees what do you think, _mon ami?_" I shook my head. "In a moment, he has torn the letter into long thin strips, and rolling them up into spills he thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other spills in the vase on the mantle-piece." I uttered an exclamation. "No one would think of looking there," Poirot continued. "And he will be able, at his leisure, to come back and destroy this solitary piece of evidence against him." "Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom, under our very noses?" I cried. Poirot nodded. "Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my last link,' and I owe that very fortunate discovery to you." "To me?" "Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand shook as I was straightening the ornaments on the mantelpiece?" "Yes, but I don't see" "No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I remembered that earlier in the morning, when we had been there together, I had straightened all the objects on the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, someone else had touched them." "Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was wise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth." "And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you gave me two reasons why Miss Howard could not have committed the crime!" "And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For a long time they were a stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact: that she and Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have committed the crime single-handed, but the reasons against that did not debar her from being an accomplice. And, then, there was that rather over-vehement hatred of hers! It concealed a very opposite emotion. There was, undoubtedly, a tie of passion between them long before he came to Styles. They had already arranged their infamous plot that he should marry this rich, but rather foolish old lady, induce her to make a will leaving her money to him, and then gain their ends by a very cleverly conceived crime. If all had gone as they planned, they would probably have left England, and lived together on their poor victim's money." "They are a very astute and unscrupulous pair. While suspicion was to be directed against him, she would be making quiet preparations for a very different _d nouement_. She arrives from Middlingham with all the compromising items in her possession. No suspicion attaches to her. No notice is paid to her coming and going in the house. She hides the strychnine and glasses in John's room. She puts the beard in the attic. She will see to it that sooner or later they are duly discovered." "I don't quite see why they tried to fix the blame on John," I remarked. "It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence." "Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers." "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully. "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?" "No." "You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the crime?" "No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!" "Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when I asked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were the bromide powders which she had made up, and her clever male impersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us. There was really more evidence against her than anyone else." "You are joking, Poirot!" "No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he first entered his mother's room on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room was unbolted." "But he declared that he	that everything must be risked for the sake of that damning piece of evidence. Quickly, he forces the lock with a penknife, and turns over the papers until he finds what he is looking for." "But now a fresh dilemma arises: he dare not keep that piece of paper on him. He may be seen leaving the room he may be searched. If the paper is found on him, it is certain doom. Probably, at this minute, too, he hears the sounds below of Mr. Wells and John leaving the boudoir. He must act quickly. Where can he hide this terrible slip of paper? The contents of the waste-paper-basket are kept and in any case, are sure to be examined. There are no means of destroying it; and he dare not keep it. He looks round, and he sees what do you think, _mon ami?_" I shook my head. "In a moment, he has torn the letter into long thin strips, and rolling them up into spills he thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other spills in the vase on the mantle-piece." I uttered an exclamation. "No one would think of looking there," Poirot continued. "And he will be able, at his leisure, to come back and destroy this solitary piece of evidence against him." "Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom, under our very noses?" I cried. Poirot nodded. "Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my last link,' and I owe that very fortunate discovery to you." "To me?" "Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand shook as I was straightening the ornaments on the mantelpiece?" "Yes, but I don't see" "No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I remembered that earlier in the morning, when we had been there together, I had straightened all the objects on the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, someone else had touched them." "Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"	Mr. Vyse	Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent	Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when	literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was	to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under	been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills. "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her	bells. The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't go"--" "Well, I don't blame them" "--Minnie says, "need she go?" "--"Tell her, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church. The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the caress. Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills. "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off. "Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers.	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 is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden." She took hold of her guest by the arm. "Suppose we don't talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting." Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain. Chapter XV: The Disaster Within The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells. The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't go"--" "Well, I don't blame them" "--Minnie says, "need she go?" "--"Tell her, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church. The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the caress. Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills. "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off. "Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good	the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells. The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't go"--" "Well, I don't blame them" "--Minnie says, "need she go?" "--"Tell her, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church. The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the caress. Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills. "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back	A Room With A View
was Mr. Emerson's reply.	No speaker	rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing	gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the	"I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a	"You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--" He paused for a phrase. "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself." "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker." "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded.	said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?" The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away. "You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--" He paused for a phrase. "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself." "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker." "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded. It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding." Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her. "If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity. "Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last	Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began their career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate's upturned toes. "Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had darted forward also. "Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!" The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be superstitious. "Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?" The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away. "You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--" He paused for a phrase. "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself." "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker." "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded. It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding." Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her. "If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity. "Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience." "My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are repeating what you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure." Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before replying. "I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are." The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi	And in a moment she was away over the Piazza, her military cloak flapping in the wind; nor did she slacken speed till she caught up an old man with white whiskers, and nipped him playfully upon the arm. Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. Then she began to get tired. The beggars worried her, the dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered that a young girl ought not to loiter in public places. She descended slowly into the Piazza with the intention of rejoining Miss Lavish, who was really almost too original. But at that moment Miss Lavish and her local-colour box moved also, and disappeared down a side street, both gesticulating largely. Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes partly because Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken her Baedeker. How could she find her way home? How could she find her way about in Santa Croce? Her first morning was ruined, and she might never be in Florence again. A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits, talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading herself that she was full of originality. Now she entered the church depressed and humiliated, not even able to remember whether it was built by the Franciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a wonderful building. But how like a barn! And how very cold! Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile values she was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tell her which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin. Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of acquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out the Italian notices--the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs into the church--the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health and out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves, not to spit. She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began their career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate's upturned toes. "Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had darted forward also. "Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!" The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be superstitious. "Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?" The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away. "You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--" He paused for a phrase. "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself." "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker." "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded. It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding." Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her. "If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity. "Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience." "My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are repeating what you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure." Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before replying. "I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are." The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt like a child in school who had answered a question rightly. The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of them rose the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to worship Giotto, not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of the spirit. "Remember," he was saying, "the facts about this church of Santa Croce; how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in these frescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!" "No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church. "Remember nothing of the sort! Built by faith indeed! That simply means the workmen weren't paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I see no truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much as I do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air balloon." He was referring to the fresco of the "Ascension of St. John." Inside, the lecturer's voice faltered, as well it might. The audience shifted uneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought not to be with these men; but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious and so strange that she could not remember how to behave. "Now, did this happen, or didn't it? Yes or no?" George replied: "It happened like this, if it happened at all. I would rather go up to heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I should like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do here." "You will never go up," said his father. "You and I, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear as surely as our work survives." "Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all." "Pardon me," said a frigid voice. "The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer."	remember whether it was built by the Franciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a wonderful building. But how like a barn! And how very cold! Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile values she was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tell her which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin. Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of acquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out the Italian notices--the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs into the church--the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health and out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves, not to spit. She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began their career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate's upturned toes. "Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had darted forward also. "Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!" The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be superstitious. "Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?" The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away. "You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--" He paused for a phrase. "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself." "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker." "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded. It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding." Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her. "If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity. "Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience." "My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are repeating what you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure." Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before replying. "I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are." The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt like a child in school who had answered a question rightly. The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of them rose the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to worship Giotto, not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of the spirit. "Remember," he was saying, "the facts about this church of Santa Croce; how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in these frescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!" "No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in	A Room With A View
Wickham only shook his head.	No speaker	to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at	even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,	with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will	at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have	him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his	to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. "About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand." "Yes," replied Wickham;--" "his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy." Elizabeth could not but look surprised. "You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?" "As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--" "I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father." Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased	on the mantle-piece, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last however. The gentlemen did approach; and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable, gentleman-like set, and the best of them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who followed them into the room. Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most thread-bare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker. With such rivals for the notice of the fair, as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed likely to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her in return, by sitting down to whist. "I know little of the game, at present," said he, "but I shall be glad to improve myself, for in my situation of life----" Mrs. Philips was very thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason. Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. "About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand." "Yes," replied Wickham;--" "his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy." Elizabeth could not but look surprised. "You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?" "As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--" "I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father." Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now." "Indeed!" "Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere." "Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?" "There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me." "This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced." "Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_." Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. "But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?" "A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me." "I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him,	first there seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. "About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand." "Yes," replied Wickham;--" "his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy." Elizabeth could not but look surprised. "You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?" "As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--" "I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father." Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible	Pride And Prejudice
said Baby.	No speaker	you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's	of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't	revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of	"what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end	Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it."	world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below. "Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it." Presently Tony realized that it was not etiquette in Milly's world to express interest in women, other than the one you were with. They drank champagne. So also, noticed Tony with displeasure, did the two detectives. He would have something to say about that when their bill for expenses came in. It was not as though they had been accommodating in the matter of Winnie. All the time, at the back of his mind, he was worrying with the problem of what they could possibly do after dinner, but it was solved for him, just as he was lighting his cigar, by the appearance of Dan from the other side of the dining-room. "Look here," he said, "if you two aren't doing anything special, why don't you join up with us and come to the party at my friend's place. You'll like it. He always gives one the best of everything." "Oh, do let's," said Milly. Dan's evening clothes were made of blue cloth that was supposed to appear black in artificial light; for some reason, however, they remained very blue. So Milly and Tony went to Dan's friend's place and had the best of everything. There was a party	right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below. "Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it." Presently Tony realized that it was not etiquette in Milly's world to express interest in women, other than the one you were with. They drank champagne. So also, noticed Tony with displeasure, did the two detectives. He would have something to say about that when their bill for expenses came in. It was not as though they had been accommodating in the matter of Winnie. All the time, at the back of his mind, he was worrying with the problem of what they could possibly do after dinner, but it was solved for him, just as he was lighting his cigar, by the appearance of Dan from the other side of the dining-room. "Look here," he said, "if you two aren't doing anything special, why don't you join up with us and come to the party at my friend's place. You'll like it. He always gives one the best of everything." "Oh, do let's," said Milly. Dan's evening clothes were made of blue cloth that was supposed to appear black in artificial light; for some reason, however, they remained very blue. So Milly and Tony went to Dan's friend's place and had the best of everything. There was a party of twenty or thirty people, all more or less like Dan. Dan's friend was most hospitable. When he was not fiddling with the wireless, which gave trouble off and on throughout the evening, he was sauntering among his guests refilling their glasses. "This stuff's all right," he said, showing the label, "it won't hurt you. It's the right stuff." They had a lot of the right stuff. Quite often Dan's friend noticed that Tony seemed to be out of the party. Then he would come across and put his hand on Tony's shoulder. "I'm so glad Dan brought you," he would say. "Hope you're getting all you want. Delighted to see you. Come again when there isn't a crowd and see over the place. Interested in roses?" "Yes, I like them very much." "Come when the roses are out. You'd like that if you're interested in roses. Damn that radio, it's going wonky again." Tony wondered whether he was as amiable when people he did not know were brought over unexpectedly to Hetton. At one stage in the evening he found himself sitting on a sofa with Dan, who said, "Nice kid, Milly." "Yes." "I'll tell you a thing I've noticed about her. She attracts quite a different type from the other girls. People like you and me." "Yes." "You wouldn't think she had a daughter of eight, would you?" "No, it's very surprising." "I didn't know for ages. Then I was taking her to Dieppe for the week-end and she wanted to bring the child along too. Of course that put the kybosh on it, but I've always liked Milly just the same. You can trust her to behave anywhere." He said this with a sour glance towards Baby, who was full of the right stuff and showing it. It was after three before the party broke up. Dan's friend renewed his invitation to come again when the roses were out. "I doubt if you'll find a better show of roses anywhere in the south of England," he said. Dan drove them back to the hotel. Baby sat beside him in front, disposed to be quarrelsome. "Where were you?" she kept asking. "Never saw you all the evening. Where did you get to? Where were you hiding? I call it a lousy way to take a girl out." Tony and Milly sat at the back. From habit and exhaustion	"Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it." Presently Tony realized that it was not etiquette in Milly's world to express interest in women, other than the one you were with. They drank champagne. So also, noticed Tony with displeasure, did the two detectives. He would have something to say about that when their bill for expenses came in. It was not as though they had been accommodating in the matter of Winnie. All the time, at the back of his mind, he was worrying with the problem of what they could possibly do after dinner, but it was solved for him, just as he was lighting his cigar, by the appearance of Dan from the other side of the dining-room. "Look here," he said, "if you two aren't doing anything special, why don't you join up with us and come to the party at my friend's place. You'll like it. He always gives one the best of everything." "Oh, do let's," said Milly. Dan's evening clothes were made of blue cloth that was supposed to appear black in artificial light; for some reason, however, they remained very blue. So Milly and Tony went to Dan's friend's place and had the best of everything. There was a party of twenty or thirty people, all more or less like Dan. Dan's friend was most hospitable. When he was not fiddling with the wireless, which gave trouble off and on throughout the evening, he was sauntering among his guests refilling their glasses. "This stuff's all right," he said, showing the label, "it won't hurt you. It's the right stuff." They had a lot of the right stuff. Quite often Dan's friend noticed that Tony seemed to be out of the party. Then he would come across and put his hand on Tony's shoulder. "I'm so glad Dan brought you," he would say. "Hope you're getting all you want. Delighted to see you. Come again when there isn't a crowd and see over the place. Interested in roses?" "Yes, I like them very much." "Come when the roses are out. You'd like that if you're interested in roses. Damn that radio, it's going wonky again." Tony wondered whether he was as amiable when people he did not know were brought over unexpectedly	A Handful Of Dust
"Are you working?"	Katharine Hilbery	been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young	with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as	immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party."	there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for	speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up	off I go. The illusion fades. But I accept my fate. I make hay while the sun shines." Cassandra looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Here s Katharine talking about rats, and hay, and all sorts of odd things," she said, as William returned to them. He had been quick. "Can you make her out?" Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation that he did not find that particular problem to his taste at present. She stood upright at once and said in a different tone: "I really am off, though. I wish you d explain if they say anything, William. I shan t be late, but I ve got to see some one." "At this time of night?" Cassandra exclaimed. "Whom have you got to see?" William demanded. "A friend," she remarked, half turning her head towards him. She knew that he wished her to stay, not, indeed, with them, but in their neighborhood, in case of need. "Katharine has a great many friends," said William rather lamely, sitting down once more, as Katharine left the room. She was soon driving quickly, as she had wished to drive, through the lamp-lit streets. She liked both light and speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up a scheme for the education of labor, for the amalgamation of the middle class and the working class, and for a joint assault of the two bodies, combined in the Society for the Education of Democracy, upon Capital. The scheme had already reached the stage in which it was permissible to hire an office and engage a secretary, and he had been deputed to expound the scheme to Mary, and make her an offer of the Secretaryship, to which, as a matter of principle, a small salary was attached. Since seven o clock that evening he had been reading out loud the document in which the faith of the new reformers was expounded, but the reading was so frequently interrupted by discussion, and it was so often necessary to inform Mary "in strictest confidence" of the private characters and evil designs of certain individuals and societies that they were still only half-way through the manuscript. Neither of them realized that the talk had already lasted three hours. In their absorption they had forgotten even to feed the fire, and yet both Mr. Basnett in his exposition, and Mary in her interrogation, carefully preserved a kind of formality calculated to check	love, to struggle. And yet her melancholy brought her no serenity. She still heard the voices within the room. She was still tormented by desires. She wished to be beyond their range. She wished inconsistently enough that she could find herself driving rapidly through the streets; she was even anxious to be with some one who, after a moment s groping, took a definite shape and solidified into the person of Mary Datchet. She drew the curtains so that the draperies met in deep folds in the middle of the window. "Ah, there she is," said Mr. Hilbery, who was standing swaying affably from side to side, with his back to the fire. "Come here, Katharine. I couldn t see where you d got to our children," he observed parenthetically, "have their uses I want you to go to my study, Katharine; go to the third shelf on the right-hand side of the door; take down Trelawny s Recollections of Shelley ; bring it to me. Then, Peyton, you will have to admit to the assembled company that you have been mistaken." "Trelawny s Recollections of Shelley. The third shelf on the right of the door," Katharine repeated. After all, one does not check children in their play, or rouse sleepers from their dreams. She passed William and Cassandra on her way to the door. "Stop, Katharine," said William, speaking almost as if he were conscious of her against his will. "Let me go." He rose, after a second s hesitation, and she understood that it cost him an effort. She knelt one knee upon the sofa where Cassandra sat, looking down at her cousin s face, which still moved with the speed of what she had been saying. "Are you happy?" she asked. "Oh, my dear!" Cassandra exclaimed, as if no further words were needed. "Of course, we disagree about every subject under the sun," she exclaimed, "but I think he s the cleverest man I ve ever met and you re the most beautiful woman," she added, looking at Katharine, and as she looked her face lost its animation and became almost melancholy in sympathy with Katharine s melancholy, which seemed to Cassandra the last refinement of her distinction. "Ah, but it s only ten o clock," said Katharine darkly. "As late as that! Well ?" She did not understand. "At twelve my horses turn into rats and off I go. The illusion fades. But I accept my fate. I make hay while the sun shines." Cassandra looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Here s Katharine talking about rats, and hay, and all sorts of odd things," she said, as William returned to them. He had been quick. "Can you make her out?" Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation that he did not find that particular problem to his taste at present. She stood upright at once and said in a different tone: "I really am off, though. I wish you d explain if they say anything, William. I shan t be late, but I ve got to see some one." "At this time of night?" Cassandra exclaimed. "Whom have you got to see?" William demanded. "A friend," she remarked, half turning her head towards him. She knew that he wished her to stay, not, indeed, with them, but in their neighborhood, in case of need. "Katharine has a great many friends," said William rather lamely, sitting down once more, as Katharine left the room. She was soon driving quickly, as she had wished to drive, through the lamp-lit streets. She liked both light and speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up a scheme for the education of labor, for the amalgamation of the middle class and the working class, and for a joint assault of the two bodies, combined in the Society for the Education of Democracy, upon Capital. The scheme had already reached the stage in which it was permissible to hire an office and engage a secretary, and he had been deputed to expound the scheme to Mary, and make her an offer of the Secretaryship, to which, as a matter of principle, a small salary was attached. Since seven o clock that evening he had been reading out loud the document in which the faith of the new reformers was expounded, but the reading was so frequently interrupted by discussion, and it was so often necessary to inform Mary "in strictest confidence" of the private characters and evil designs of certain individuals and societies that they were still only half-way through the manuscript. Neither of them realized that the talk had already lasted three hours. In their absorption they had forgotten even to feed the fire, and yet both Mr. Basnett in his exposition, and Mary in her interrogation, carefully preserved a kind of formality calculated to check the desire of the human mind for irrelevant discussion. Her questions frequently began, "Am I to understand " and his replies invariably represented the views of some one called "we." By this time Mary was almost persuaded that she, too, was included in the "we," and agreed with Mr. Basnett in believing that "our" views, "our" society, "our" policy, stood for something quite definitely segregated from the main body of society in a circle of superior illumination. The appearance of Katharine in this atmosphere was extremely incongruous, and had the effect of making Mary remember all sorts of things that she had been glad to forget. "You ve been dining out?" she asked again, looking, with a little smile, at the blue silk and the pearl-sewn shoes. "No, at home. Are you starting something new?" Katharine hazarded, rather hesitatingly, looking at the papers. "We are," Mr. Basnett replied. He said no more. "I m thinking of leaving our friends in Russell Square," Mary explained. "I see. And then you will do something else." "Well, I m afraid I like working," said Mary. "Afraid," said Mr. Basnett, conveying the impression that, in his opinion, no sensible person could be afraid of liking to work. "Yes," said Katharine, as if he had stated this opinion aloud. "I should like to start something something off one s own bat that s what I should like." "Yes, that s the fun," said Mr. Basnett, looking at her for the first time rather keenly, and refilling his pipe. "But you can t limit work that s what I mean," said Mary. "I mean there are other sorts of work. No one works harder than a woman with little children." "Quite so," said Mr. Basnett. "It s precisely the women with babies we want to get hold of." He glanced at his document, rolled it into a cylinder between his fingers, and gazed into the fire. Katharine felt that in this company anything that one said would be judged upon its merits; one had only to say what one thought, rather barely and tersely, with a curious assumption that the number of things that could properly be thought about was strictly limited. And Mr. Basnett was only stiff upon the surface; there was an intelligence in his face which attracted her intelligence. "When will the public know?" she asked. "What d you mean about us?" Mr.	her way to the door. "Stop, Katharine," said William, speaking almost as if he were conscious of her against his will. "Let me go." He rose, after a second s hesitation, and she understood that it cost him an effort. She knelt one knee upon the sofa where Cassandra sat, looking down at her cousin s face, which still moved with the speed of what she had been saying. "Are you happy?" she asked. "Oh, my dear!" Cassandra exclaimed, as if no further words were needed. "Of course, we disagree about every subject under the sun," she exclaimed, "but I think he s the cleverest man I ve ever met and you re the most beautiful woman," she added, looking at Katharine, and as she looked her face lost its animation and became almost melancholy in sympathy with Katharine s melancholy, which seemed to Cassandra the last refinement of her distinction. "Ah, but it s only ten o clock," said Katharine darkly. "As late as that! Well ?" She did not understand. "At twelve my horses turn into rats and off I go. The illusion fades. But I accept my fate. I make hay while the sun shines." Cassandra looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Here s Katharine talking about rats, and hay, and all sorts of odd things," she said, as William returned to them. He had been quick. "Can you make her out?" Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation that he did not find that particular problem to his taste at present. She stood upright at once and said in a different tone: "I really am off, though. I wish you d explain if they say anything, William. I shan t be late, but I ve got to see some one." "At this time of night?" Cassandra exclaimed. "Whom have you got to see?" William demanded. "A friend," she remarked, half turning her head towards him. She knew that he wished her to stay, not, indeed, with them, but in their neighborhood, in case of need. "Katharine has a great many friends," said William rather lamely, sitting down once more, as Katharine left the room. She was soon driving quickly, as she had wished to drive, through the lamp-lit streets. She liked both light and speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up a scheme for the education of labor, for the amalgamation of the middle class and the working class, and for a joint assault of the two bodies, combined in the Society for the Education of Democracy, upon Capital. The scheme had already reached the stage in which it was permissible to hire an office and engage a secretary, and he had been deputed to expound the scheme to Mary, and make her an offer of the Secretaryship, to which, as a matter of principle, a small salary was attached. Since seven o clock that evening he had been reading out loud the document in which the faith of the new reformers was expounded, but the reading was so frequently interrupted by discussion, and it was so often necessary to inform Mary "in strictest confidence" of the private characters and evil designs of certain individuals and societies that they were still only half-way through the manuscript. Neither of them realized that the talk had already lasted three hours. In their absorption they had forgotten even to feed the fire, and yet both Mr. Basnett in his exposition, and Mary in her interrogation, carefully preserved a kind of formality calculated to check the desire of the human mind for irrelevant discussion. Her questions frequently began, "Am I to understand " and his replies invariably represented the views of some one called "we." By this time Mary was almost persuaded that she, too, was included in the "we," and agreed with Mr. Basnett in believing that "our" views, "our" society, "our" policy, stood for something quite	Night And Day
“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”	Jelinek	He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather.	asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden,	our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I	father has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.” Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.”	and spontaneous. He said he would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me he had a nice “lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school. At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to strangers. “Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?” he asked. Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.” Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.” We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, manly faith. “I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these things,” said grandfather, “and I would never be the one to say you were not in God’s care when you were among the soldiers.” After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to	in town, but he was afraid the gray gelding had strained himself. Indeed, he was never the same horse afterward. That long trip through the deep snow had taken all the endurance out of him. Fuchs brought home with him a stranger, a young Bohemian who had taken a homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on his only horse to help his fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That was the first time I ever saw Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young fellow in the early twenties then, handsome, warm-hearted, and full of life, and he came to us like a miracle in the midst of that grim business. I remember exactly how he strode into our kitchen in his felt boots and long wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks bright with the cold. At sight of grandmother, he snatched off his fur cap, greeting her in a deep, rolling voice which seemed older than he. “I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Burden, for that you are so kind to poor strangers from my kawn-tree.” He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one eagerly in the eye when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and spontaneous. He said he would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me he had a nice “lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school. At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to strangers. “Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?” he asked. Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.” Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.” We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, manly faith. “I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these things,” said grandfather, “and I would never be the one to say you were not in God’s care when you were among the soldiers.” After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to work on a coffin. Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we admired it, he told us that he had shot and skinned the coyotes, and the young man who “batched” with him, Jan Bouska, who had been a fur-worker in Vienna, made the coat. From the windmill I watched Jelinek come out of the barn with the blacks, and work his way up the hillside toward the cornfield. Sometimes he was completely hidden by the clouds of snow that rose about him; then he and the horses would emerge black and shining. Our heavy carpenter’s bench had to be brought from the barn and carried down into the kitchen. Fuchs selected boards from a pile of planks grandfather had hauled out from town in the fall to make a new floor for the oats bin. When at last the lumber and tools were assembled, and the doors were closed again and the cold drafts shut out, grandfather rode away to meet the coroner at the Shimerdas’, and Fuchs took off his coat and settled down to work. I sat on his work-table and watched him. He did not touch his tools at first, but figured for a	Jake and I got supper, and while we were washing the dishes he told me in loud whispers about the state of things over at the Shimerdas’. Nobody could touch the body until the coroner came. If any one did, something terrible would happen, apparently. The dead man was frozen through, “just as stiff as a dressed turkey you hang out to freeze,” Jake said. The horses and oxen would not go into the barn until he was frozen so hard that there was no longer any smell of blood. They were stabled there now, with the dead man, because there was no other place to keep them. A lighted lantern was kept hanging over Mr. Shimerda’s head. Ántonia and Ambrosch and the mother took turns going down to pray beside him. The crazy boy went with them, because he did not feel the cold. I believed he felt cold as much as any one else, but he liked to be thought insensible to it. He was always coveting distinction, poor Marek! Ambrosch, Jake said, showed more human feeling than he would have supposed him capable of; but he was chiefly concerned about getting a priest, and about his father’s soul, which he believed was in a place of torment and would remain there until his family and the priest had prayed a great deal for him. “As I understand it,” Jake concluded, “it will be a matter of years to pray his soul out of Purgatory, and right now he’s in torment.” “I don’t believe it,” I said stoutly. “I almost know it is n’t true.” I did not, of course, say that I believed he had been in that very kitchen all afternoon, on his way back to his own country. Nevertheless, after I went to bed, this idea of punishment and Purgatory came back on me crushingly. I remembered the account of Dives in torment, and shuddered. But Mr. Shimerda had not been rich and selfish; he had only been so unhappy that he could not live any longer. XV OTTO FUCHS got back from Black Hawk at noon the next day. He reported that the coroner would reach the Shimerdas’ sometime that afternoon, but the missionary priest was at the other end of his parish, a hundred miles away, and the trains were not running. Fuchs had got a few hours’ sleep at the livery barn in town, but he was afraid the gray gelding had strained himself. Indeed, he was never the same horse afterward. That long trip through the deep snow had taken all the endurance out of him. Fuchs brought home with him a stranger, a young Bohemian who had taken a homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on his only horse to help his fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That was the first time I ever saw Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young fellow in the early twenties then, handsome, warm-hearted, and full of life, and he came to us like a miracle in the midst of that grim business. I remember exactly how he strode into our kitchen in his felt boots and long wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks bright with the cold. At sight of grandmother, he snatched off his fur cap, greeting her in a deep, rolling voice which seemed older than he. “I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Burden, for that you are so kind to poor strangers from my kawn-tree.” He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one eagerly in the eye when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and spontaneous. He said he would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me he had a nice “lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school. At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to strangers. “Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?” he asked. Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.” Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.” We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, manly faith. “I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these things,” said grandfather, “and I would never be the one to say you were not in God’s care when you were among the soldiers.” After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to work on a coffin. Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we admired it, he told us that he had shot and skinned the coyotes, and the young man who “batched” with him, Jan Bouska, who had been a fur-worker in Vienna, made the coat. From the windmill I watched Jelinek come out of the barn with the blacks, and work his way up the hillside toward the cornfield. Sometimes he was completely hidden by the clouds of snow that rose about him; then he and the horses would emerge black and shining. Our heavy carpenter’s bench had to be brought from the barn and carried down into the kitchen. Fuchs selected boards from a pile of planks grandfather had hauled out from town in the fall to make a new floor for the oats bin. When at last the lumber and tools were assembled, and the doors were closed again and the cold drafts shut out, grandfather rode away to meet the coroner at the Shimerdas’, and Fuchs took off his coat and settled down to work. I sat on his work-table and watched him. He did not touch his tools at first, but figured for a long while on a piece of paper, and measured the planks and made marks on them. While he was thus engaged, he whistled softly to himself, or teasingly pulled at his half-ear. Grandmother moved about quietly, so as not to disturb him. At last he folded his ruler and turned a cheerful face to us. “The hardest part of my job’s done,” he announced. “It’s the head end of it that comes hard with me, especially when I’m out of practice. The last time I made one of these, Mrs. Burden,” he continued, as he sorted and tried his chisels, “was for a fellow in the Black Tiger mine, up above Silverton, Colorado. The mouth of that mine goes right into the face of the cliff, and they used to put us in a bucket and run us over on a trolley and shoot us into the shaft. The bucket traveled across a box cañon three hundred feet deep, and about a third full of water. Two Swedes had fell out of that bucket once, and hit the water, feet down. If you’ll believe it, they went to work the next day. You can’t kill a Swede. But in my time a little Eyetalian tried the high dive, and it turned out different with him. We was snowed in then, like we are now, and I happened to be the only man in camp that could make a coffin for him. It’s a handy thing to know, when you knock about like I’ve done.” “We’d be hard put to it now, if you did n’t know, Otto,” grandmother said. “Yes, ’m,” Fuchs admitted with modest pride. “So few folks does know how to make a good tight box that’ll turn water. I sometimes wonder if there’ll be anybody about to do it for me. However, I’m not at all particular that way.” All afternoon, wherever one went in the house, one could hear the panting wheeze of the saw or the pleasant purring of the plane. They were such cheerful noises, seeming to promise new things for living people: it was a pity that those freshly planed pine boards were to be put underground so soon. The lumber was hard to work because it was full of frost, and the boards gave off a sweet smell of pine woods, as the heap of yellow shavings grew higher and higher. I	a stranger, a young Bohemian who had taken a homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on his only horse to help his fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That was the first time I ever saw Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young fellow in the early twenties then, handsome, warm-hearted, and full of life, and he came to us like a miracle in the midst of that grim business. I remember exactly how he strode into our kitchen in his felt boots and long wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks bright with the cold. At sight of grandmother, he snatched off his fur cap, greeting her in a deep, rolling voice which seemed older than he. “I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Burden, for that you are so kind to poor strangers from my kawn-tree.” He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one eagerly in the eye when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and spontaneous. He said he would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me he had a nice “lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school. At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to strangers. “Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?” he asked. Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.” Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.” We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, manly faith. “I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these things,” said grandfather, “and I would never be the one to say you were not in God’s care when you were among the soldiers.” After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to work on a coffin. Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we admired it, he told us that he had shot and	My Antonia
"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"	Mr. Frank Churchill	and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess	with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I	was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for	and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know	admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it," (with a gallant bow,) "that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms." Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable. She had no doubt of	most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment. Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was it a musical society?" But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it," (with a gallant bow,) "that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms." Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable. She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening. Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which, however, he	shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon." She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure. The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually before her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be. He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day. "I told you yesterday," cried Mr. Weston with exultation, "I told you all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs." "It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it," said the young man, "though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far; but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing." The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency. Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment. Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was it a musical society?" But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it," (with a gallant bow,) "that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms." Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable. She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening. Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which, however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till after another night. A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.--"He must be going. He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry any body else." His son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying, "As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore may as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of yours," (turning to Emma,) "a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name--I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?" "To be sure we do," cried his father; "Mrs. Bates--we passed her house--I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call upon her, by all means." "There is no necessity for my calling this morning," said the young man; "another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which--" "Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight." The son looked convinced. "I have heard her speak of the acquaintance," said Emma; "she is a very elegant young woman." He agreed to it, but with so quiet a "Yes," as inclined her almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with it. "If you were never particularly struck by her manners before," said she, "I	brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment. Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was it a musical society?" But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it," (with a gallant bow,) "that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms." Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable. She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening. Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after	Emma
“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”	Grace	the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered	the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance	please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear,	I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.” Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. “Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh	business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.” Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. “Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder	a searching look with Lady Grace, who, showing in her face all the pain of the business, stood off at the distance to which a woman instinctively retreats when a scene turns to violence as precipitately as this one appeared to strike her as having turned: “I ask you that not less than I should like to know whom you speak of as ‘deprived’ of property that happens--for reasons that I don’t suppose you also quarrel with!--to be mine.” “Well, I know nothing about threats, Lord Theign,” Hugh said, “but I speak of _all_ of us--of all the people of England; who would deeply deplore such an act of alienation, and whom, for the interest they bear you, I beseech you mercifully to consider.” “The interest they bear me?” --the master of Dedborough fairly bristled with wonder. “Pray how the devil do they show it?” “I think they show it in all sorts of ways” --and Hugh’s critical smile, at almost any moment hovering, played over the question in a manner seeming to convey that he meant many things. “Understand then, please,” said Lord Theign with every inch of his authority, “that they’ll show it best by minding their own business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.” Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. “Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder was to address herself directly to Hugh, across their companion. “Will you make your inquiry for _me_ then?” The light again kindled in him. “With all the pleasure in life!” He had found his cap and, taking them together, bowed to the two, for departure, with high emphasis of form. Then he marched off in the direction from which he had entered. Lord Theign scarce waited for his disappearance to turn in wrath to Lady Grace. “I denounce the indecency, wretched child, of your public defiance of me!” They were separated by a wide interval now, and though at her distance she met his reproof so unshrinkingly as perhaps to justify the terms into which it had broken, she became aware of a reason for his not following it up. She pronounced in quick warning “Lord John!” --for their friend, released from among the pictures, was rejoining them, was already there. He spoke straight to his host on coming into sight. “Bender’s at last off, but” --he indicated the direction of the garden front-- “you may still find him, out yonder, prolonging the agony with Lady Sand-gate.” Lord Theign remained a moment, and the heat of his resentment remained. He	doubtless, and of a sudden, a little portentous--as was in fact testified to by his lordship’s quick stiff stare, full of wonder at so free a note. But Hugh had the courage of his undertaking. “If I contribute in ny modest degree to establishing the true authorship of the work you speak of, may I have from you an assurance that my success isn’t to serve as a basis for any peril--or possibility--of its leaving the country?” Lord Theign was visibly astonished, but had also, independently of this, turned a shade pale. “You ask of me an ‘assurance’?” Hugh had now, with his firmness and his strained smile, quite the look of having counted the cost of his step. “I’m afraid I _must_, you see.” It pressed at once in his host the spring of a very grand manner. “And pray by what right here do you do anything of the sort?” “By the right of a person from whom you, on your side, are accepting a service.” Hugh had clearly determined in his opponent a rise of what is called spirit. “A service that you half an hour ago thrust on me, sir--and with which you may take it from me that I’m already quite prepared to dispense.” “I’m sorry to appear indiscreet,” our young man returned; “I’m sorry to have upset you in any way. But I can’t overcome my anxiety--” Lord Theign took the words from his lips. “And you therefore invite me--at the end of half an hour in this house!--to account to you for my personal intentions and my private affairs and make over my freedom to your hands?” Hugh stood there with his eyes on the black and white pavement that stretched about him--the great loz-enged marble floor that might have figured that ground of his own vision which he had made up his mind to “stand.” “I can only see the matter as I see it, and I should be ashamed not to have seized any chance to appeal to you.” Whatever difficulty he had had shyly to face didn’t exist for him now. “I entreat you to think again, to think _well_, before you deprive us of such a source of just envy.” “And you regard your entreaty as helped,” Lord Theign asked, “by the beautiful threat you are so good as to attach to it?” Then as his monitor, arrested, exchanged a searching look with Lady Grace, who, showing in her face all the pain of the business, stood off at the distance to which a woman instinctively retreats when a scene turns to violence as precipitately as this one appeared to strike her as having turned: “I ask you that not less than I should like to know whom you speak of as ‘deprived’ of property that happens--for reasons that I don’t suppose you also quarrel with!--to be mine.” “Well, I know nothing about threats, Lord Theign,” Hugh said, “but I speak of _all_ of us--of all the people of England; who would deeply deplore such an act of alienation, and whom, for the interest they bear you, I beseech you mercifully to consider.” “The interest they bear me?” --the master of Dedborough fairly bristled with wonder. “Pray how the devil do they show it?” “I think they show it in all sorts of ways” --and Hugh’s critical smile, at almost any moment hovering, played over the question in a manner seeming to convey that he meant many things. “Understand then, please,” said Lord Theign with every inch of his authority, “that they’ll show it best by minding their own business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.” Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. “Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder was to address herself directly to Hugh, across their companion. “Will you make your inquiry for _me_ then?” The light again kindled in him. “With all the pleasure in life!” He had found his cap and, taking them together, bowed to the two, for departure, with high emphasis of form. Then he marched off in the direction from which he had entered. Lord Theign scarce waited for his disappearance to turn in wrath to Lady Grace. “I denounce the indecency, wretched child, of your public defiance of me!” They were separated by a wide interval now, and though at her distance she met his reproof so unshrinkingly as perhaps to justify the terms into which it had broken, she became aware of a reason for his not following it up. She pronounced in quick warning “Lord John!” --for their friend, released from among the pictures, was rejoining them, was already there. He spoke straight to his host on coming into sight. “Bender’s at last off, but” --he indicated the direction of the garden front-- “you may still find him, out yonder, prolonging the agony with Lady Sand-gate.” Lord Theign remained a moment, and the heat of his resentment remained. He looked with a divided discretion, the pain of his indecision, from his daughter’s suitor and his approved candidate to that contumacious young woman and back again; then choosing his course in silence he had a gesture of almost desperate indifference and passed quickly out by the door to the terrace. It had left Lord John gaping. “What on earth’s the matter with your father?” “What on earth indeed?” Lady Grace unaidingly asked. “Is he discussing with that awful man?” “Old Bender? Do you think him so awful?” Lord John showed surprise--which might indeed have passed for harmless amusement; but he shook everything off in view of a nearer interest. He quite waved old Bender away. “My dear girl, what do _we_ care--?” “I care immensely, I assure you,” she interrupted, “and I ask of you, please, to tell me!” Her perversity, coming straight and which he had so little expected, threw him back so that he looked at her with sombre eyes. “Ah, it’s not for such a matter I’m here, Lady Grace--I’m here with that fond question of my own.” And then as she turned away, leaving him with a vehement motion of protest: “I’ve come for your kind answer--the answer your father instructed me to count on.” “I’ve no kind answer to give you!” --she raised forbidding hands. “I entreat you to leave me alone.” There was so high a spirit and so strong a force in it that he stared as if stricken by violence. “In God’s name then what has happened--when you almost gave me your word?” “What has happened is that I’ve found it impossible to listen to you.” And she moved as if fleeing she scarce knew whither before him. He had already hastened around another way, however, as to meet her in her quick circuit of the hall. “That’s all you’ve got to say to me after what has passed between us?” He had stopped her thus, but she had also stopped him, and her passionate denial set him a limit. “I’ve got to say--sorry as I am--that if you _must_ have an answer it’s this: that never, Lord John, never, can there be anything more between us.” And her gesture cleared her path, permitting her to achieve her flight. “Never, no, never,” she repeated as she went-- “never, never, never!” She got off by the door at which she had been aiming	Theign took the words from his lips. “And you therefore invite me--at the end of half an hour in this house!--to account to you for my personal intentions and my private affairs and make over my freedom to your hands?” Hugh stood there with his eyes on the black and white pavement that stretched about him--the great loz-enged marble floor that might have figured that ground of his own vision which he had made up his mind to “stand.” “I can only see the matter as I see it, and I should be ashamed not to have seized any chance to appeal to you.” Whatever difficulty he had had shyly to face didn’t exist for him now. “I entreat you to think again, to think _well_, before you deprive us of such a source of just envy.” “And you regard your entreaty as helped,” Lord Theign asked, “by the beautiful threat you are so good as to attach to it?” Then as his monitor, arrested, exchanged a searching look with Lady Grace, who, showing in her face all the pain of the business, stood off at the distance to which a woman instinctively retreats when a scene turns to violence as precipitately as this one appeared to strike her as having turned: “I ask you that not less than I should like to know whom you speak of as ‘deprived’ of property that happens--for reasons that I don’t suppose you also quarrel with!--to be mine.” “Well, I know nothing about threats, Lord Theign,” Hugh said, “but I speak of _all_ of us--of all the people of England; who would deeply deplore such an act of alienation, and whom, for the interest they bear you, I beseech you mercifully to consider.” “The interest they bear me?” --the master of Dedborough fairly bristled with wonder. “Pray how the devil do they show it?” “I think they show it in all sorts of ways” --and Hugh’s critical smile, at almost any moment hovering, played over the question in a manner seeming to convey that he meant many things. “Understand then, please,” said Lord Theign with every inch of his authority, “that they’ll show it best by minding their own business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.” Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. “Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder was to address herself directly to Hugh, across their companion. “Will you make your inquiry for _me_ then?” The light again kindled in him. “With all the pleasure in life!” He had found his cap and, taking them together, bowed to the two, for departure, with high emphasis of form. Then he marched off in the direction from which he had entered. Lord Theign scarce waited for his disappearance to turn in wrath to Lady Grace. “I denounce the indecency, wretched child, of your public defiance of me!” They were	The Outcry
"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."	Mr. Hastings	Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr.	going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know.	did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this	I run! I leap!" And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window. "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad. It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, _I_ thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively. "You are an excellent advocate, I have no	bell?" Dorcas looked very surprised. "Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning." With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room. "See you, one should not ask for outside proof no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!" And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window. "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad. It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, _I_ thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively. "You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me." I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind. "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?" I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort. "Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your	to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful." "What did she mean by" On the top of the wardrobe'?" "She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of a wardrobe." "A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused. "Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye." "Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about this crime?" "Yes that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed." "Ah!" "Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless" With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, _un moment, s'il vous pla t!_" Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry. "My good Dorcas, I have an idea a little idea if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?" Dorcas looked very surprised. "Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning." With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room. "See you, one should not ask for outside proof no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!" And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window. "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad. It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, _I_ thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively. "You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me." I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind. "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?" I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort. "Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are _not_ happy." I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished. She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me. "You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I come from, who I was before I married John anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think yes, I am sure you are kind." Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a young man. "My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a Russian." "Ah," I said, "now I understand" "Understand what?" "A hint of something foreign different that there has always been about you." "My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died	about all over the country!" I cried indignantly. "Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful," remarked Poirot. "So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved." "Then you think he never really cared for her?" I asked eagerly rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances. "That, of course, I cannot say, but shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?" "Yes." "Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!" "Do you really think so?" I could not disguise my pleasure. "I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why." "Yes?" "Because she cares for someone else, _mon ami_." "Oh!" What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmth spread over me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned, but I remembered certain evidences, too lightly thought of at the time, perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Miss Howard. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was no one else in the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown paper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she did so the cryptic words: "On top of the wardrobe." Then she hurriedly left the room. Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He spread it out on the table. "Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial J. or L.?" It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though it had lain by for some time. But it was the label that was attracting Poirot's attention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson's, the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to " (the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex." "It might be T., or it might be L.," I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. "It certainly isn't a J." "Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. "I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!" "Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?" "Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful." "What did she mean by" On the top of the wardrobe'?" "She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of a wardrobe." "A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused. "Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye." "Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about this crime?" "Yes that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed." "Ah!" "Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless" With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, _un moment, s'il vous pla t!_" Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry. "My good Dorcas, I have an idea a little idea if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?" Dorcas looked very surprised. "Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning." With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room. "See you, one should not ask for outside proof no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!" And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window. "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad. It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, _I_ thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively. "You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me." I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind. "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?" I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort. "Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are _not_ happy." I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished. She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me. "You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I come from, who I was before I married John anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think yes, I am sure you are kind." Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a young man. "My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a Russian." "Ah," I said, "now I understand" "Understand what?" "A hint of something foreign different that there has always been about you." "My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was some tragedy connected with her death she took an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life I loved it." There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old glad days. "Then my father died. He left me very badly off. I had to go and live with some old aunts in Yorkshire." She shuddered. "You will understand me when I say that it was a deadly life for a girl brought up as I had been. The narrowness, the deadly monotony of it, almost drove me mad." She paused a minute, and added in a different tone: "And then I met John Cavendish." "Yes?" "You can imagine that, from my aunts' point of view, it was a very good match for me. But I can honestly say it was not this fact which weighed with me. No, he was simply a way of escape from the insufferable monotony of my life." I said nothing, and after a moment, she went on: "Don't misunderstand me. I was quite honest with him. I told him, what was true, that I liked him very much, that I hoped to come to like him more, but that I was not in any way what the world calls in love' with him. He declared that that satisfied him, and so we were married." She waited a long time, a little frown had gathered on her forehead. She seemed to be looking back earnestly into those past days. "I think I am sure he cared for me at first. But I suppose we were not well matched. Almost at once, we drifted apart. He it is not a pleasing thing for my pride, but it is the truth tired of me very soon." I must have made some murmur of dissent, for she went on quickly: "Oh, yes, he did! Not that it matters now now that we've come to the parting of the ways." "What do you mean?" She answered quietly: "I mean that I am not going to remain at	the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson's, the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to " (the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex." "It might be T., or it might be L.," I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. "It certainly isn't a J." "Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. "I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!" "Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?" "Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful." "What did she mean by" On the top of the wardrobe'?" "She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of a wardrobe." "A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused. "Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye." "Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about this crime?" "Yes that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed." "Ah!" "Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless" With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, _un moment, s'il vous pla t!_" Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry. "My good Dorcas, I have an idea a little idea if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?" Dorcas looked very surprised. "Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning." With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room. "See you, one should not ask for outside proof no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!" And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window. "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad. It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, _I_ thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively. "You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me." I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind. "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?" I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort. "Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are _not_ happy." I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished. She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me. "You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I come from, who I was before I married John anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think yes, I am sure you are kind." Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a young man. "My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a Russian." "Ah," I said, "now I understand" "Understand what?" "A hint of something foreign different that there has always been about you." "My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was some tragedy connected with her death she took an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life I loved it." There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old glad days. "Then my father died. He left	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.	No speaker	pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking	me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and	I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle	"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the" "No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear,"	your eyes, and hold up your head, sir." Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. "Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the" "No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again. "Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small." "Why, he _is_ rather small," replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; "he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry he'll grow." "Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However,	had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering. For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. "Oliver!" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice. "Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir." Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. "Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the" "No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again. "Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small." "Why, he _is_ rather small," replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; "he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry he'll grow." "Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o' bones." With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated "kitchen"; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair. "Here, Charlotte," said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, "give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em are you, boy?" Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him. I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver	their spirit down for 'em." "Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice: "Well; what about the boy?" "Oh!" replied the undertaker; "why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor's rates." "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble. "Well?" "Well," replied the undertaker, "I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so I think I'll take the boy myself." Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening "upon liking" a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with. When little Oliver was taken before "the gentlemen" that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith. Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering. For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. "Oliver!" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice. "Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir." Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. "Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the" "No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again. "Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small." "Why, he _is_ rather small," replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; "he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry he'll grow." "Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o' bones." With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated "kitchen"; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair. "Here, Charlotte," said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, "give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em are you, boy?" Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him. I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish. "Well," said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: "have you done?" There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative. "Then come with me," said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; "your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much matter whether you do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else. Come; don't keep me here all night!" Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress. CHAPTER V. OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S BUSINESS Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp down on a workman's bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave. Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He	if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith. Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering. For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. "Oliver!" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice. "Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir." Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. "Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the" "No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again. "Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small." "Why, he _is_ rather small," replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; "he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry he'll grow." "Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o' bones." With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated "kitchen"; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair. "Here, Charlotte," said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, "give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em are you, boy?" Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him. I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish. "Well," said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: "have you done?" There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative. "Then come with me," said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; "your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much matter whether you do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else. Come; don't keep me here all night!" Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress. CHAPTER V. OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S BUSINESS Oliver, being left to himself	Oliver Twist
"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"	Harry Maylie	are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied	my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you	say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you	at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was	for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage. "Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day." "Halloa!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; "something very short of flying will keep pace with _me_. Do you hear?" Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise	to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?" "I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver. "That's a fine fellow," said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?" "The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them." "Well," said the doctor, "you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage. "Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day." "Halloa!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; "something very short of flying will keep pace with _me_. Do you hear?" Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed. And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself. "He seems in high spirits and happy," she said, at length. "I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad." Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy. CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily	should have been happier." Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her. "I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger," said Rose, extending her hand. "I must leave you now, indeed." "I ask one promise," said Harry. "Once, and only once more, say within a year, but it may be much sooner, I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time." "Not to press me to alter my right determination," replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; "it will be useless." "No," said Harry; "to hear you repeat it, if you will finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it." "Then let it be so," rejoined Rose; "it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better." She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room. CHAPTER XXXVI. IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES "And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?" said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. "Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!" "You will tell me a different tale one of these days," said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason. "I hope I may have good cause to do so," replied Mr. Losberne; "though I confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?" "I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver. "That's a fine fellow," said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?" "The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them." "Well," said the doctor, "you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage. "Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day." "Halloa!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; "something very short of flying will keep pace with _me_. Do you hear?" Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed. And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself. "He seems in high spirits and happy," she said, at length. "I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad." Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy. CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on the cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were sent back from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy net-work, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might be that the insects brought to mind, some painful passage in his own past life. Nor was Mr. Bumble's gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his affairs. The laced coat, and the cocked hat; where were they? He still wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were not _the_ breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respect like _the_ coat, but, oh how different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle. There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more substantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine. Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended. "And to-morrow two months it was done!" said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. "It seems a age." Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of happiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh. "I sold myself," said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of relection, "for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small	get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage. "Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day." "Halloa!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; "something very short of flying will keep pace with _me_. Do you hear?" Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed. And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself. "He seems in high spirits and happy," she said, at length. "I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad." Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same	Oliver Twist
This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.	No speaker	is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls,"	pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at	age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine	of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility,	hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here." This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but we are told to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!" "The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother and "I should have known her anywhere for his sister!" was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent	a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman s love is declared,[1] it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney s being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire. [1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler. CHAPTER 4 With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here." This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but we are told to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!" "The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother and "I should have known her anywhere for his sister!" was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love. Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London;	"strange." "I am quite of your opinion, sir," replied Mrs. Allen; "and so I told Miss Morland when she bought it." "But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces." "Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so far to go eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than eight; and it is such a fag I come back tired to death. Now, here one can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes." Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced. Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged himself a little too much with the foibles of others. "What are you thinking of so earnestly?" said he, as they walked back to the ballroom; "not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory." Catherine coloured, and said, "I was not thinking of anything." "That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once that you will not tell me." "Well then, I will not." "Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so much." They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady s side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman s love is declared,[1] it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney s being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire. [1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler. CHAPTER 4 With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here." This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but we are told to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!" "The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother and "I should have known her anywhere for his sister!" was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love. Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a crowd. These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they were entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might have been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe s manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this acquaintance with her, softened down every feeling of awe, and left nothing but tender affection. Their increasing attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen s house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe s progress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and dress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which had procured her such a friend. Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her eldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by pretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and dressing in the same style, did very well. This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy the three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of lords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated. CHAPTER 5 Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could	drank her warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman s love is declared,[1] it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney s being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire. [1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler. CHAPTER 4 With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here." This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but we are told to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!" "The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother and "I should have known her anywhere for his sister!" was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the	Northanger Abbey
"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"	Anne Shirley	as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually	have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her	life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think,	an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs.	work in Miss Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness. The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on "A Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it behooved them to be observant. "Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne in an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their besetting sins just like everybody else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving very hard to overcome it and now	look back to them." Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old groove and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, and a promising friendship of three years was broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not "speak" for three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell's bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little they had to do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne Shirley put on airs about her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon was "licked"; consequently Moody Spurgeon's sister, Ella May, would not "speak" to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter. With the exception of these trifling frictions, work in Miss Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness. The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on "A Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it behooved them to be observant. "Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne in an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their besetting sins just like everybody else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving very hard to overcome it and now that I'm really thirteen perhaps I'll get on better." "In four more years we'll be able to put our hair up," said Diana. "Alice Bell is only sixteen and she is wearing hers up, but I think that's ridiculous. I shall wait until I'm seventeen." "If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose," said Anne decidedly, "I wouldn't--but there! I won't say what I was going to because it was extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with my own nose and that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about my nose ever since I heard that compliment about it long ago. It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, look, there's a rabbit. That's something to remember for our woods composition. I really think the woods are just as lovely in winter as in summer. They're so white and still, as if they were asleep and dreaming pretty dreams." "I won't mind writing that composition when its time comes," sighed Diana. "I can manage to write about the woods, but the one we're to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write a story out of our own heads!" "Why, it's	of Anne tonight, although I'm not going to tell her so." "Well now, I was proud of her and I did tell her so ?fore she went upstairs," said Matthew. "We must see what we can do for her some of these days, Marilla. I guess she'll need something more than Avonlea school by and by." "There's time enough to think of that," said Marilla. "She's only thirteen in March. Though tonight it struck me she was growing quite a big girl. Mrs. Lynde made that dress a mite too long, and it makes Anne look so tall. She's quick to learn and I guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to Queen's after a spell. But nothing need be said about that for a year or two yet." "Well now, it'll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on," said Matthew. "Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over." CHAPTER XXVI. The Story Club Is Formed \|JUNIOR Avonlea found it hard to settle down to humdrum existence again. To Anne in particular things seemed fearfully flat, stale, and unprofitable after the goblet of excitement she had been sipping for weeks. Could she go back to the former quiet pleasures of those faraway days before the concert? At first, as she told Diana, she did not really think she could. "I'm positively certain, Diana, that life can never be quite the same again as it was in those olden days," she said mournfully, as if referring to a period of at least fifty years back. "Perhaps after a while I'll get used to it, but I'm afraid concerts spoil people for everyday life. I suppose that is why Marilla disapproves of them. Marilla is such a sensible woman. It must be a great deal better to be sensible; but still, I don't believe I'd really want to be a sensible person, because they are so unromantic. Mrs. Lynde says there is no danger of my ever being one, but you can never tell. I feel just now that I may grow up to be sensible yet. But perhaps that is only because I'm tired. I simply couldn't sleep last night for ever so long. I just lay awake and imagined the concert over and over again. That's one splendid thing about such affairs--it's so lovely to look back to them." Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old groove and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, and a promising friendship of three years was broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not "speak" for three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell's bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little they had to do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne Shirley put on airs about her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon was "licked"; consequently Moody Spurgeon's sister, Ella May, would not "speak" to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter. With the exception of these trifling frictions, work in Miss Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness. The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on "A Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it behooved them to be observant. "Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne in an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their besetting sins just like everybody else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving very hard to overcome it and now that I'm really thirteen perhaps I'll get on better." "In four more years we'll be able to put our hair up," said Diana. "Alice Bell is only sixteen and she is wearing hers up, but I think that's ridiculous. I shall wait until I'm seventeen." "If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose," said Anne decidedly, "I wouldn't--but there! I won't say what I was going to because it was extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with my own nose and that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about my nose ever since I heard that compliment about it long ago. It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, look, there's a rabbit. That's something to remember for our woods composition. I really think the woods are just as lovely in winter as in summer. They're so white and still, as if they were asleep and dreaming pretty dreams." "I won't mind writing that composition when its time comes," sighed Diana. "I can manage to write about the woods, but the one we're to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write a story out of our own heads!" "Why, it's as easy as wink," said Anne. "It's easy for you because you have an imagination," retorted Diana, "but what would you do if you had been born without one? I suppose you have your composition all done?" Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtuously complacent and failing miserably. "I wrote it last Monday evening. It's called ?The Jealous Rival; or In Death Not Divided.' I read it to Marilla and she said it was stuff and nonsense. Then I read it to Matthew and he said it was fine. That is the kind of critic I like. It's a sad, sweet story. I just cried like a child while I was writing it. It's about two beautiful maidens called Cordelia Montmorency and Geraldine Seymour who lived in the same village and were devotedly attached to each other. Cordelia was a regal brunette with a coronet of midnight hair and duskly flashing eyes. Geraldine was a queenly blonde with hair like spun gold and velvety purple eyes." "I never saw anybody with purple eyes," said Diana dubiously. "Neither did I. I just imagined them. I wanted something out of the common. Geraldine had an alabaster brow too. I've found out what an alabaster brow is. That is one of the advantages of being thirteen. You know so much more than you did when you were only twelve." "Well, what became of Cordelia and Geraldine?" asked Diana, who was beginning to feel rather interested in their fate. "They grew in beauty side by side until they were sixteen. Then Bertram DeVere came to their native village and fell in love with the fair Geraldine. He saved her life when her horse ran away with her in a carriage, and she fainted in his arms and he carried her home three miles; because, you understand, the carriage was all smashed up. I found it rather hard to imagine the proposal because I had no experience to go by. I asked Ruby Gillis if she knew anything about how men proposed because I thought she'd likely be an authority on the subject, having so many sisters married. Ruby told me she was hid in the hall pantry when Malcolm Andres proposed to her sister Susan. She said Malcolm told Susan that his dad had given him the farm in his own name and then said," ?What do you say, darling pet, if we	such affairs--it's so lovely to look back to them." Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old groove and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, and a promising friendship of three years was broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not "speak" for three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell's bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little they had to do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne Shirley put on airs about her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon was "licked"; consequently Moody Spurgeon's sister, Ella May, would not "speak" to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter. With the exception of these trifling frictions, work in Miss Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness. The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on "A Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it behooved them to be observant. "Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne in an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their besetting sins just like everybody else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving very hard to overcome it and now that I'm really thirteen perhaps I'll get on better." "In four more years we'll be able to put our hair up," said Diana. "Alice Bell is only sixteen and she is wearing hers up, but I think that's ridiculous. I shall wait until I'm seventeen." "If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose," said Anne decidedly, "I wouldn't--but there! I won't say what I was going to because it was extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with my own nose and that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about my nose ever since I heard that compliment about it long ago. It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, look, there's a rabbit. That's something to remember for our woods composition. I really think the woods are just as lovely in winter as in summer. They're so white and still, as if they were asleep and dreaming pretty dreams." "I won't mind writing that composition when its time comes," sighed Diana. "I can manage to write about the woods, but the one we're to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write a story out of our own heads!" "Why, it's as easy as wink," said Anne. "It's easy for you because you have an imagination," retorted Diana, "but what would you do if you had been born without one? I suppose you have your composition all done?" Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtuously complacent and failing miserably. "I wrote it last Monday evening. It's called ?The	Anne Of Green Gables
said Mr. Grimwig, at length.	No speaker	"That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr.	inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?"	in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for	I called out of the window, he's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do. "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly. "Don't know?" "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only	and his too." "No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend." "I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I _know_ it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. Don't go to him,' I called out of the window, he's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do. "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly. "Don't know?" "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys." "And which is Oliver?" "Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!" "Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath." "They are not,"	was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder. "I'll eat my head, sir," repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. "Hallo! what's that!" looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two. "This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about," said Mr. Brownlow. Oliver bowed. "You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?" said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. "Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop" continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; "that's the boy who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too." "No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend." "I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I _know_ it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. Don't go to him,' I called out of the window, he's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do. "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly. "Don't know?" "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys." "And which is Oliver?" "Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!" "Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath." "They are not," replied Mr. Grimwig. "He may have worse." Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight. "He may have worse, I say," repeated Mr. Grimwig. "Where does he come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven't they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!" Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until	while I live." Oliver's sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig. "Is he coming up?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, sir," replied the servant. "He asked if there were any muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea." Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know. "Shall I go downstairs, sir?" inquired Oliver. "No," replied Mr. Brownlow, "I would rather you remained here." At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice. "Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I can't call at a man's house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon's friend on the staircase? I've been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!" This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder. "I'll eat my head, sir," repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. "Hallo! what's that!" looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two. "This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about," said Mr. Brownlow. Oliver bowed. "You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?" said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. "Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop" continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; "that's the boy who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too." "No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend." "I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I _know_ it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. Don't go to him,' I called out of the window, he's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do. "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly. "Don't know?" "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys." "And which is Oliver?" "Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!" "Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath." "They are not," replied Mr. Grimwig. "He may have worse." Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight. "He may have worse, I say," repeated Mr. Grimwig. "Where does he come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven't they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!" Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn't find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to and so forth. All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman: knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman's presence. "And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?" asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed his subject. "To-morrow morning," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, my dear." "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig's looking so hard at him. "I'll tell you what," whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; "he won't come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my good friend." "I'll swear he is not," replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly. "If he is not," said Mr. Grimwig, "I'll" and down went the stick. "I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!" said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table. "And I for his falsehood with my head!" rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also. "We shall see," said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger. "We will," replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; "we will." As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identical bookstall-keeper, who has already figured in this history; having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the room. "Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!" said Mr. Brownlow; "there is something to go back." "He has gone, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin. "Call after him," said Mr. Brownlow; "it's particular. He is a poor man, and they are not	or I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!" This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder. "I'll eat my head, sir," repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. "Hallo! what's that!" looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two. "This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about," said Mr. Brownlow. Oliver bowed. "You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?" said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. "Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop" continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; "that's the boy who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too." "No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend." "I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I _know_ it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. Don't go to him,' I called out of the window, he's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do. "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly. "Don't know?" "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys." "And which is Oliver?" "Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!" "Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath." "They are not," replied Mr. Grimwig. "He may have worse." Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight. "He may have worse, I say," repeated Mr. Grimwig. "Where does he come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven't they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!" Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn't find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to and so forth. All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman: knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel	Oliver Twist
"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."	Miss Bingley	in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But	neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you	you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I	fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near	in anything else." "I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things." "In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. "And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to	very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world," replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend's vulgar relations. With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. "Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular." "Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else." "I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things." "In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. "And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished, as they all are." "All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?" "Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished." "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley. "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must	of pride and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added, "She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild." "She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!" "Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to hide it, not doing its office." "Your picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley; "but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well, when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice." "_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley; "and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such an exhibition." "Certainly not." "To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by it? It seems to me to shew an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country town indifference to decorum." "It shews an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," said Bingley. "I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper, "that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes." "Not at all," he replied; "they were brightened by the exercise." "--A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again. "I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it." "I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton." "Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside." "That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily. "If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside," cried Bingley, "it would not make them one jot less agreeable." "But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world," replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend's vulgar relations. With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. "Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular." "Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else." "I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things." "In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. "And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished, as they all are." "All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?" "Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished." "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley. "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved." "All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." "I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_." "Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?" "_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united." Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. "Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art." "Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable." Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced	for the short time she could stay below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. "Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular." "Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else." "I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things." "In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. "And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished, as they all are." "All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?" "Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished." "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley. "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved." "All this she must possess,"	Pride And Prejudice
said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.	No speaker	great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No."	from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy	premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some	dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as	with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen. But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark myself only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!" Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!" the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so. This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without	the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less, in the bluchers. "Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" said this strange young gentleman to Oliver. "I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days." "Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on." Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by the term in question. "My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?" "What mill?" inquired Oliver. "What mill! Why, _the_ mill the mill as takes up so little room that it'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind's low with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen. But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark myself only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!" Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!" the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so. This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned. Mr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his patron's interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet of "The Artful Dodger," Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther acquaintance. As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John's Road; struck down the small street which terminates at	own lonesomeness and desolation, as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step. By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up; and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat. He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with ease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and determination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by observing that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long, that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said, "Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment and would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought it back to its old place again. He wore a man's coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less, in the bluchers. "Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" said this strange young gentleman to Oliver. "I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days." "Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on." Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by the term in question. "My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?" "What mill?" inquired Oliver. "What mill! Why, _the_ mill the mill as takes up so little room that it'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind's low with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen. But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark myself only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!" Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!" the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so. This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned. Mr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his patron's interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet of "The Artful Dodger," Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther acquaintance. As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John's Road; struck down the small street which terminates at Sadler's Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the workhouse; across the classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels. Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours. There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place, were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here and there diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth; and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless errands. Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him into the passage, closed it behind them. "Now, then!" cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger. "Plummy and slam!" was the reply. This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage; and a man's face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away. "There's two on you," said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shielding his eyes with his hand. "Who's the t'other one?" "A new pal," replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward. "Where did he come from?" "Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?" "Yes, he's a sortin' the wipes.	gentleman to Oliver. "I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days." "Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on." Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by the term in question. "My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?" "What mill?" inquired Oliver. "What mill! Why, _the_ mill the mill as takes up so little room that it'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind's low with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen. But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark myself only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!" Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!" the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so. This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned. Mr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his	Oliver Twist
I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.	No speaker	you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a	me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so	show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss	only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away.	the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against	Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!" I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point." Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself." "Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was a very ridiculous one, no doubt that she had intended to poison him and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree." "Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction,	thoughtfully down the corridor in front of me. An idea struck me. With the exception of Cynthia Murdoch's, everyone's room was in this left wing. Had that anything to do with it? Was I to report who came or went? I stood faithfully at my post. The minutes passed. Nobody came. Nothing happened. It must have been quite twenty minutes before Poirot rejoined me. "You have not stirred?" "No, I've stuck here like a rock. Nothing's happened." "Ah!" Was he pleased, or disappointed? "You've seen nothing at all?" "No." "But you have probably heard something? A big bump eh, _mon ami?_" "No." "Is it possible? Ah, but I am vexed with myself! I am not usually clumsy. I made but a slight gesture" I know Poirot's gestures "with the left hand, and over went the table by the bed!" He looked so childishly vexed and crest-fallen that I hastened to console him. "Never mind, old chap. What does it matter? Your triumph downstairs excited you. I can tell you, that was a surprise to us all. There must be more in this affair of Inglethorp's with Mrs. Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?" "Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!" "Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window. "Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about that man, Poirot. I don't like him." "He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively. "Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot." "You saw him, then?" "Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in it was just after dinner but Mr. Inglethorp insisted." "What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance." "Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!" I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point." Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself." "Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was a very ridiculous one, no doubt that she had intended to poison him and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree." "Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction, that they are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against Miss Howard's having deliberately poisoned Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Why, she was devoted to her!" I exclaimed. "Tcha! Tcha!" cried Poirot irritably. "You argue like a child. If Miss Howard were capable of poisoning the old lady, she would be quite equally capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look elsewhere. You are perfectly correct in your assumption that her vehemence against Alfred Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are quite wrong in the deduction you draw from it. I have drawn my own deductions, which I believe to be correct, but I will not speak of them at present." He paused a minute, then went on. "Now, to my way of thinking, there is one insuperable objection to Miss Howard's being the murderess." "And that is?" "That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp's death benefit Miss Howard. Now there is no murder without a motive." I reflected. "Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in her favour?" Poirot shook his head. "But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?" Poirot smiled. "That was for a reason. I did not want to mention the name of the person who was actually in my mind. Miss Howard occupied very much the same position, so I used her name instead." "Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the afternoon of her death may" But Poirot's shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped. "No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will. But I can tell you this much it was not in Miss Howard's favour." I accepted his assurance, though I did not really see how he could be so positive about the matter. "Well," I said, with a sigh, "we will acquit Miss Howard, then. It is partly your fault that I ever came to suspect her. It was what you said about her evidence at the inquest that set me off." Poirot looked puzzled. "What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?" "Don't you remember? When I cited her and John Cavendish as being above suspicion?" "Oh ah yes." He seemed a little confused, but recovered himself. "By the way, Hastings, there is something I want you to do for me." "Certainly. What is it?" "Next time you happen to be	caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance." "Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!" I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."	Newland Archer	hurried on with a rush.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She	don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She thinks it means that I	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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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	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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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	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 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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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	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 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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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	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 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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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!" 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. "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	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 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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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	The Age Of Innocence
"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"	Isabella Thorpe	I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking	like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful	"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they	able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?" "The finest place in England worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with	should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston." "I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland. "You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe. "We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?" "The finest place in England worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?" "Yes." "Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl." "Did you indeed?" "Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too." "It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk." "And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere." Isabella corroborated	a few mornings back. "Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for me perhaps but I shall not go I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call." Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. "Make haste! Make haste!" as he threw open the door. "Put on your hat this moment there is no time to be lost we are going to Bristol. How d ye do, Mrs. Allen?" "To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment." This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give their assistance. "My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston." "I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland. "You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe. "We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?" "The finest place in England worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?" "Yes." "Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl." "Did you indeed?" "Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too." "It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk." "And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere." Isabella corroborated it: "My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now." "I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?" "Yes, yes, every hole and corner." "But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and call by and by?" "Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks." "Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?" "Just as you please, my dear." "Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go," was the general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it: "Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you go." And in two minutes they were off. Catherine s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think	to carry. I would much rather take a chair at any time." "It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be dry!" "Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable." The rain continued fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. "You will not be able to go, my dear." "I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and now I _shall_ give it up entirely. Oh! That we had such weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the south of France! the night that poor St. Aubin died! such beautiful weather!" At half past twelve, when Catherine s anxious attention to the weather was over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by surprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had "always thought it would clear up." But whether Catherine might still expect her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture, must yet be a question. It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the pump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely watched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that had surprised her so much a few mornings back. "Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for me perhaps but I shall not go I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call." Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. "Make haste! Make haste!" as he threw open the door. "Put on your hat this moment there is no time to be lost we are going to Bristol. How d ye do, Mrs. Allen?" "To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment." This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give their assistance. "My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston." "I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland. "You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe. "We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?" "The finest place in England worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?" "Yes." "Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl." "Did you indeed?" "Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too." "It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk." "And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere." Isabella corroborated it: "My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now." "I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?" "Yes, yes, every hole and corner." "But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and call by and by?" "Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks." "Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?" "Just as you please, my dear." "Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go," was the general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it: "Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you go." And in two minutes they were off. Catherine s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had acted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement, without sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later than the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite of what she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course of that hour, she could not from her own observation help thinking that they might have gone with very little inconvenience. To feel herself slighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console her for almost anything. They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place, without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion, "Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?" "Who? Where?" "On the right-hand pavement she must be almost out of sight now." Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother s arm, walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her. "Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe," she impatiently cried; "it is Miss Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out this moment and go to them." But to what purpose did she speak? Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself whisked into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of another street, she entreated him to stop. "Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss Tilney." But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared. "How could you deceive me so, Mr.	this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston." "I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland. "You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe. "We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?" "The finest place in England worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?" "Yes." "Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl." "Did you indeed?" "Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too." "It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk." "And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere." Isabella corroborated it: "My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now." "I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?" "Yes, yes, every hole and corner." "But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and call by and by?" "Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks." "Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?" "Just as you please, my dear." "Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go," was the general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it: "Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you go." And in two minutes they were off. Catherine s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree,	Northanger Abbey
said Mr. Bumble,	No speaker	his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who	his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you?	becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave	are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what	is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from	Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,' didn't they?" Mr. Bumble nodded. "And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had" "Tush! Foolery!" interposed the beadle. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do." "Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed." "Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: "juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches." "So they are," said the undertaker. "They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. "No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker. "I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face. "So do I," rejoined the undertaker. "And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for 'em." "Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath	replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,' didn't they?" Mr. Bumble nodded. "And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had" "Tush! Foolery!" interposed the beadle. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do." "Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed." "Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: "juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches." "So they are," said the undertaker. "They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. "No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker. "I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face. "So do I," rejoined the undertaker. "And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for 'em." "Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice: "Well; what about the boy?" "Oh!" replied the undertaker; "why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor's rates." "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble. "Well?" "Well," replied the undertaker, "I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so I think I'll take the boy myself." Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening "upon liking" a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with. When little Oliver was taken before "the gentlemen" that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith. Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand which was	and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,' didn't they?" Mr. Bumble nodded. "And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had" "Tush! Foolery!" interposed the beadle. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do." "Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed." "Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: "juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches." "So they are," said the undertaker. "They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. "No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker. "I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face. "So do I," rejoined the undertaker. "And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for 'em." "Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat	Oliver Twist
"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."	Don Lavington	am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don?	believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you,	think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you	the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that	to leave you." "Oh, yes; I think I can walk. Anyhow I'm going to try. I say, if you hear me squeak or crack anywhere, you'll stop me, won't you?" "Of course." "Come on then, and let's get there. Oh, crumpets! What a pain." "Lean on me." "No; I'm going to lean on myself," said Jem, stoutly. "I'm pretty sure I arn't broke, Mas' Don; but feel just as if I was cracked all over like an old pot, and that's werry bad, you know, arn't it? Now then, which way is it?" "This way, Jem, to the right of the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that is, if you can walk fast?" "I can walk fast, my lad: look. But what's quarter of a hour? I got muddled enough over the bells board ship--three bells, and four bells, and the rest of it; but out here there don't seem to be no time at all. Wonder how near those fellows are as we see. I am glad I arn't broke." In about the time Don had said, they came to the path leading to the ravine, where the cave pierced the mountain side. A few minutes later they were by the hot bath spring, and directly	Don raised it tenderly, and replaced it gently. "I don't think it's broken, Jem." "Arn't it? Well, it feels like it. P'r'aps it's t'other one. Try." Don raised and replaced Jem's right leg. "That isn't broken either, Jem." "P'r'aps they're only crushed. Try my arms, my lad." These were tried in turn, and laid down. "No, Jem." "Seems stoopid," said Jem. "I thought I was broke all over. It must be my back, and when a man's back's broke, he feels it all over. Here, lend us a hand, my lad; and I'll try and walk. Soon see whether a man's back's broke." Don offered his arm, and Jem, after a good deal of grunting and groaning, rose to his feet, gave himself a wrench, and then stamped with first one leg and then with the other. "Why, I seems all right, Mas' Don," he said, eagerly. "Yes, Jem." "Think it's my ribs? I've heared say that a man don't always know when his ribs is broke." "Do you feel as if they were, Jem?" "Oh, yes; just exactly. All down one side, and up the other." "Could you manage to walk as far as the village? I don't like to leave you." "Oh, yes; I think I can walk. Anyhow I'm going to try. I say, if you hear me squeak or crack anywhere, you'll stop me, won't you?" "Of course." "Come on then, and let's get there. Oh, crumpets! What a pain." "Lean on me." "No; I'm going to lean on myself," said Jem, stoutly. "I'm pretty sure I arn't broke, Mas' Don; but feel just as if I was cracked all over like an old pot, and that's werry bad, you know, arn't it? Now then, which way is it?" "This way, Jem, to the right of the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that is, if you can walk fast?" "I can walk fast, my lad: look. But what's quarter of a hour? I got muddled enough over the bells board ship--three bells, and four bells, and the rest of it; but out here there don't seem to be no time at all. Wonder how near those fellows are as we see. I am glad I arn't broke." In about the time Don had said, they came to the path leading to the ravine, where the cave pierced the mountain side. A few minutes later they were by the hot bath spring, and directly after, to Don's great delight, they came upon Tomati. "I was coming to look for you two," he said. "You had better not go far from the _whare_. Two of the tribes have turned savage, and are talking about war." Don interrupted him, and told him what they had seen. "So soon!" he said hurriedly. "Is it bad news, then?" asked Don, anxiously. "Bad, my lads! Bad as it can be." "Then that was a war-party we saw?" "Yes; come on." He then put his hands to his mouth and uttered a wildly savage yell, whose effect was instantaneous. It was answered in all directions, and followed by a shrieking and wailing chorus from the women and children, who came trooping out of their huts, laden with household treasures, and hurrying up one particular path at the back of the village, one which neither Don nor Jem had intruded upon, from the belief that it led to some temple or place connected with the Maoris' religion. A few minutes before the men were idling about, lying on the black sand, sleeping, or eating and drinking in the most careless, indolent way. Now all were in a state of the wildest	out by the roots, that he thought it better to leap than fall, and gathering himself up, he plunged right into the second kauri pine, and went headlong down with a tremendous crash. For he had been right in his doubts. The pine was not so able to bear his weight as its fellow had been to carry Don. He caught it tightly, and the tree bent right down, carrying him nearly to the earth, where he would have done well to have let go; but he clung to it fast, and the tree sprang up again, bent once more, and broke short off, Jem falling at least twenty feet into the bushes below. "Hurt, Jem?" cried Don, forcing his way to his side. "Hurt? Now is it likely, Mas' Don? Hurt? No. I feel just like a babby that's been lifted gently down and laid on a feather cushion. That's 'bout how I feel. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Here, give's a hand. Gently, dear lad; I'm like a skin full o' broken bones. Help me out o' this tangle, and let's see how much of me's good, and how much 'll have to be throwed away. Eggs and bacon! What a state I'm in!" Don helped him as tenderly as he could out into an open space, and softly assisted him to lie down, which Jem did, groaning, and was perfectly still for a few moments flat there on his back. "Are you in much pain, Jem?" said Don, anxiously. "Horrid, lad, horrid. I think you'd better go on and warn 'em, and come and fetch me arterwards; only don't forget where I am, and not find me. Look! There's two o' them birds coming to see what's the matter." "I can't leave you, Jem. You're of more consequence to me than all the New Zealanders in the place." "Am I, Mas' Don? Come, that's kindly spoke of you. But bother that tree! Might ha' behaved as well to me as t'other did to you." "Where do you feel in pain, Jem?" "Where? It's one big solid slapping pain all over me, but it's worst where there's a big thorn stuck in my arm." "Let me see." "No; wait a bit. I don't mean to be left alone out here if I can help it. Now, Mas' Don, you lift that there left leg, and see if it's broke." Don raised it tenderly, and replaced it gently. "I don't think it's broken, Jem." "Arn't it? Well, it feels like it. P'r'aps it's t'other one. Try." Don raised and replaced Jem's right leg. "That isn't broken either, Jem." "P'r'aps they're only crushed. Try my arms, my lad." These were tried in turn, and laid down. "No, Jem." "Seems stoopid," said Jem. "I thought I was broke all over. It must be my back, and when a man's back's broke, he feels it all over. Here, lend us a hand, my lad; and I'll try and walk. Soon see whether a man's back's broke." Don offered his arm, and Jem, after a good deal of grunting and groaning, rose to his feet, gave himself a wrench, and then stamped with first one leg and then with the other. "Why, I seems all right, Mas' Don," he said, eagerly. "Yes, Jem." "Think it's my ribs? I've heared say that a man don't always know when his ribs is broke." "Do you feel as if they were, Jem?" "Oh, yes; just exactly. All down one side, and up the other." "Could you manage to walk as far as the village? I don't like to leave you." "Oh, yes; I think I can walk. Anyhow I'm going to try. I say, if you hear me squeak or crack anywhere, you'll stop me, won't you?" "Of course." "Come on then, and let's get there. Oh, crumpets! What a pain." "Lean on me." "No; I'm going to lean on myself," said Jem, stoutly. "I'm pretty sure I arn't broke, Mas' Don; but feel just as if I was cracked all over like an old pot, and that's werry bad, you know, arn't it? Now then, which way is it?" "This way, Jem, to the right of the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that is, if you can walk fast?" "I can walk fast, my lad: look. But what's quarter of a hour? I got muddled enough over the bells board ship--three bells, and four bells, and the rest of it; but out here there don't seem to be no time at all. Wonder how near those fellows are as we see. I am glad I arn't broke." In about the time Don had said, they came to the path leading to the ravine, where the cave pierced the mountain side. A few minutes later they were by the hot bath spring, and directly after, to Don's great delight, they came upon Tomati. "I was coming to look for you two," he said. "You had better not go far from the _whare_. Two of the tribes have turned savage, and are talking about war." Don interrupted him, and told him what they had seen. "So soon!" he said hurriedly. "Is it bad news, then?" asked Don, anxiously. "Bad, my lads! Bad as it can be." "Then that was a war-party we saw?" "Yes; come on." He then put his hands to his mouth and uttered a wildly savage yell, whose effect was instantaneous. It was answered in all directions, and followed by a shrieking and wailing chorus from the women and children, who came trooping out of their huts, laden with household treasures, and hurrying up one particular path at the back of the village, one which neither Don nor Jem had intruded upon, from the belief that it led to some temple or place connected with the Maoris' religion. A few minutes before the men were idling about, lying on the black sand, sleeping, or eating and drinking in the most careless, indolent way. Now all were in a state of the wildest excitement, and as Don saw the great stalwart fellows come running here and there, armed with spear and stone axe, he felt that he had misjudged them, and thought that they looked like so many grand bronze figures, suddenly come to life. Their faces and nearly naked bodies were made hideous with tattooing marks; but their skins shone and the muscles stood out, and as they all grouped together under the orders of Tomati and Ngati, both Don and Jem thought that if the party they had seen were coming on to the attack, the fighting might be desperate after all. In less time than it takes to tell, men had been sent out as scouts; and pending their return, Tomati led the way up the path, after the women and children, to where, to Don's astonishment, there was a strong blockaded enclosure, or _pah_, made by binding great stakes together at the tops, after they had been driven into the ground. There was but one entrance to the enclosure, which was on the summit of a rock with exceedingly steep sides, save where the path zigzagged to the top; and here every one was soon busy trying to strengthen the place, the spears of the men being laid against the stockade. "May as well help," said Jem, sturdily. "I'm not going to fight, but I don't mind helping them to take care of themselves." They set to and aided in every way they could, Ngati smiling approval, patting Don on the back, and then hurrying away to return with two spears, which he handed to the two young men. "My pakeha!" he said; and Jem gave an angry stamp, and was about to refuse to take the weapon, when there was a yell of excitement from all in the _pah_, for one of the scouts came running in, and as he came nearer, it could be seen that he was bleeding from a wound in the shoulder, and that he had lost his spear. As if nerved by this sight, Don and Jem seized the spears offered for their defence. "Yes, Mas' Don," said Jem; "we shall have to try and fight; seems to me as if the war's begun!" A wild shriek followed his words, and Don saw that they were but too true. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. WAR. Tomati soon showed the reason for his elevation to the	lift that there left leg, and see if it's broke." Don raised it tenderly, and replaced it gently. "I don't think it's broken, Jem." "Arn't it? Well, it feels like it. P'r'aps it's t'other one. Try." Don raised and replaced Jem's right leg. "That isn't broken either, Jem." "P'r'aps they're only crushed. Try my arms, my lad." These were tried in turn, and laid down. "No, Jem." "Seems stoopid," said Jem. "I thought I was broke all over. It must be my back, and when a man's back's broke, he feels it all over. Here, lend us a hand, my lad; and I'll try and walk. Soon see whether a man's back's broke." Don offered his arm, and Jem, after a good deal of grunting and groaning, rose to his feet, gave himself a wrench, and then stamped with first one leg and then with the other. "Why, I seems all right, Mas' Don," he said, eagerly. "Yes, Jem." "Think it's my ribs? I've heared say that a man don't always know when his ribs is broke." "Do you feel as if they were, Jem?" "Oh, yes; just exactly. All down one side, and up the other." "Could you manage to walk as far as the village? I don't like to leave you." "Oh, yes; I think I can walk. Anyhow I'm going to try. I say, if you hear me squeak or crack anywhere, you'll stop me, won't you?" "Of course." "Come on then, and let's get there. Oh, crumpets! What a pain." "Lean on me." "No; I'm going to lean on myself," said Jem, stoutly. "I'm pretty sure I arn't broke, Mas' Don; but feel just as if I was cracked all over like an old pot, and that's werry bad, you know, arn't it? Now then, which way is it?" "This way, Jem, to the right of the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that is, if you can walk fast?" "I can walk fast, my lad: look. But what's quarter of a hour? I got muddled enough over the bells board ship--three bells, and four bells, and the rest of it; but out here there don't seem to be no time at all. Wonder how near those fellows are as we see. I am glad I arn't broke." In about the time Don had said, they came to the path leading to the ravine, where the cave pierced the mountain side. A few minutes later they were by the hot bath spring, and directly after, to Don's great delight, they came upon Tomati. "I was coming to look for you two," he said. "You had better not go far from the _whare_. Two of the tribes have turned savage, and are talking about war." Don interrupted him, and told him what they had seen. "So soon!" he said hurriedly. "Is it bad news, then?" asked Don, anxiously. "Bad, my lads! Bad as it can be." "Then that was a war-party we saw?" "Yes; come on." He then put his hands to his mouth and uttered a wildly savage yell, whose effect was instantaneous. It was answered in all directions, and followed by a shrieking and wailing chorus from the women and children, who came trooping out of their huts, laden with household treasures, and hurrying up one particular path at the back of the village, one which neither Don nor Jem had intruded upon, from the belief that it led to some temple or place connected with	Don Lavington
"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"	Mr. Bumble	yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I	"What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in	couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the	his lady wife. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do _you_ do here?" "I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!" Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience	Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded. "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. "These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?" With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do _you_ do here?" "I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!" Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person. What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed	to replace the carpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out of the room, without bestowing another thought on his unfinished sentence: leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the field. Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He had a decided propensity for bullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasure from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to say) a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to his character; for many official personages, who are held in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwise, and with a view of impressing the reader with a just sense of his qualifications for office. But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making a tour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws really were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be visited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded. "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. "These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?" With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do _you_ do here?" "I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!" Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person. What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery. "All in two months!" said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. "Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but everybody else's, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and now!" It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street. He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the street. The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his	nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power, pleased and exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, that she should cry her hardest: the exercise being looked upon, by the faculty, as strongly conducive to health. "It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens down the temper," said Mr. Bumble. "So cry away." As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat from a peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man might, who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door, with much ease and waggishness depicted in his whole appearance. Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because they were less troublesome than a manual assault; but, she was quite prepared to make trial of the latter mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in discovering. The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a hollow sound, immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the opposite end of the room. This preliminary proceeding laying bare his head, the expert lady, clasping him tightly round the throat with one hand, inflicted a shower of blows (dealt with singular vigour and dexterity) upon it with the other. This done, she created a little variety by scratching his face, and tearing his hair; and, having, by this time, inflicted as much punishment as she deemed necessary for the offence, she pushed him over a chair, which was luckily well situated for the purpose: and defied him to talk about his prerogative again, if he dared. "Get up!" said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. "And take yourself away from here, unless you want me to do something desperate." Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance: wondering much what something desperate might be. Picking up his hat, he looked towards the door. "Are you going?" demanded Mrs. Bumble. "Certainly, my dear, certainly," rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker motion towards the door. "I didn't intend to I'm going, my dear! You are so very violent, that really I" At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the carpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out of the room, without bestowing another thought on his unfinished sentence: leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the field. Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He had a decided propensity for bullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasure from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to say) a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to his character; for many official personages, who are held in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwise, and with a view of impressing the reader with a just sense of his qualifications for office. But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making a tour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws really were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be visited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded. "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. "These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?" With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do _you_ do here?" "I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!" Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person. What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery. "All in two months!" said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. "Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but everybody else's, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and now!" It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street. He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the street. The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his salutation. Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the stranger had been more familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance. It so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall into company under such circumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look at the stranger: and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in some confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him. Mr. Bumble's awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable expression of the stranger's eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold. When they had encountered each other's glance several times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence. "Were you looking for me," he said, "when you peered in at the window?" "Not that I am aware of, unless you're Mr." Here Mr. Bumble stopped short; for he was curious to know the stranger's name, and thought in his impatience, he might supply the blank. "I see you were not," said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth; "or you have known my name. You don't know it. I would recommend you not to ask for it." "I meant no harm, young man," observed Mr. Bumble, majestically. "And have done none," said the stranger. Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was again broken by the stranger. "I have seen you before, I think?" said he. "You were differently dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were beadle here, once; were you not?" "I was," said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; "porochial beadle." "Just so," rejoined the other, nodding his head. "It was in that character I saw you. What are you now?" "Master of the workhouse," rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. "Master	who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded. "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. "These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?" With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do _you_ do here?" "I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!" Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person. What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery. "All in two months!" said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. "Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but everybody else's, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and now!" It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street. He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the street. The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his salutation. Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough	Oliver Twist
"I shall go with you men."	Don Lavington	the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem.	young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are	right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of	only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed	a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, "and they know it. Look!" By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush. Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we	with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side. "Be careful and make every shot tell," said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don. "We shall beat them off, sir," said Don cheerily. "Yes, I hope so, my lad," said the settler calmly. "You see you are of great use." "No, sir; it's all my fault," replied Don. "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as Don returned, "look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see." "Fire!" said Don after a momentary examination. He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock's voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house. For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down. To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, "and they know it. Look!" By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush. Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless," said the officer. Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that	and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem's disappointment. "We sha'n't see any of the fun, Mas' Don," he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock. "Now then you," he shouted, "open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha'n't be hurt. If you make a fight of it, no one will be left alive." "Look here!" shouted back Gordon; "I warn you all that the first man who comes a step farther may lose his life. Go on about your business before help comes and you are caught." "No help for a hundred miles, matey," said the savage-looking convict; "so give in. We want all you've got there, and what's more, we mean to have it. Will you surrender?" For answer Gordon thrust out his gun-barrel, and the convicts drew back a few yards, and conversed together before disappearing with their savage followers into the bush. "Have we scared them off?" said Gordon to one of the settlers, after ten minutes had passed without a sign. "I don't know," said the other. "I can't help thinking--" "Look out, Mas' Don!" _Bang_! _bang_! Two reports from muskets at the back of the house, where the attacking party had suddenly shown themselves, thinking it the weakest part; and after the two shots about a dozen Maoris dashed at the little window, and tried to get in, forcing their spears through to keep the defenders at a distance; and had not Ngati's spear played its part, darting swiftly about like the sting of some monster, the lithe, active fellows would, soon have forced their way in. Directly after, the fight began at the front, the firing growing hot, and not without effect, for one of the settlers went down with a musket bullet in his shoulder, and soon after Gordon stood back, holding his arm for Don to bind it up with a strip off a towel. "Only a spear prick," he said coolly, as he took aim with his gun directly after; and for about an hour the fight raged fiercely, with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side. "Be careful and make every shot tell," said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don. "We shall beat them off, sir," said Don cheerily. "Yes, I hope so, my lad," said the settler calmly. "You see you are of great use." "No, sir; it's all my fault," replied Don. "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as Don returned, "look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see." "Fire!" said Don after a momentary examination. He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock's voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house. For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down. To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, "and they know it. Look!" By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush. Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless," said the officer. Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers' places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers' wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal. After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon's, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes. The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners' guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem's reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush. "No, Jem," Don said stubbornly; "it would be cowardly, and we're cowards enough." "But s'pose they find us out? That there officer's sure to smell as we're salts." "Smell? Nonsense!" "He will, Mas' Don. I'm that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub." "Nonsense!" "But if they find out as we deserted, they'll hang us." "I don't believe it, Jem." "Well, you'll see, Mas' Don; so if they hang you, don't you blame me." "Well, Mr Gordon, we must be off," said the officer. "Thank you once more for all your hospitality." "God bless you, sir, and all your men, for saving our lives," said the settler warmly; and there was a chorus of thanks from the other settlers and their wives. "Nonsense, my dear sir; only our duty!" said the officer heartily. "And now about our prisoners. I don't know what to do about the Maoris. I don't want to shoot them, and I certainly don't want to march them with us down to where the ship lies. What would you do, Mr Gordon?" "I should give them a knife apiece, shake hands with them, and let them go." "What, to come back with the said knives, and kill you all when we're gone!" "They will not come back if you take away the scoundrels who led them on," said Don sharply. "How do you know?" said the officer good-humouredly. "Because," said Don, colouring, "I have been living a good deal with them, both with a friendly tribe and as a prisoner." "And they	with his gun directly after; and for about an hour the fight raged fiercely, with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side. "Be careful and make every shot tell," said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don. "We shall beat them off, sir," said Don cheerily. "Yes, I hope so, my lad," said the settler calmly. "You see you are of great use." "No, sir; it's all my fault," replied Don. "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as Don returned, "look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see." "Fire!" said Don after a momentary examination. He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock's voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house. For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down. To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, "and they know it. Look!" By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush. Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless," said the officer. Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers' places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers' wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal. After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon's, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes. The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners' guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem's reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush. "No, Jem," Don said stubbornly; "it would be cowardly, and we're cowards enough." "But s'pose they find us out? That there officer's sure to smell as we're salts." "Smell? Nonsense!" "He will, Mas' Don. I'm that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub." "Nonsense!" "But if they find out as we deserted, they'll hang	Don Lavington
“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.”	Aunt Helen	that sort,” he replied laughingly.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“But, Helen, supposing I am	“I don’t think she is that sort,” he replied laughingly.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“But, Helen, supposing I am in earnest at last, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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,	“I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately. “Surely, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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	there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not use my influence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.” “But Sybylla _would_ succeed. I am a personal friend of the leading managers, and my influence would help her greatly.” “Yes; but what would you do with her? A young gentleman couldn’t take charge of a girl and bring her out without ruining her reputation. There would be no end of scandal, as the sister theory would only be nonsense.” “There is another way; I could easily stop scandal.” “Everard, what do you mean!” “I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately. “Surely, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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	trying to the piano came as a sweet accompaniment to my congenial task. Presently they left off singing and commenced talking. Under the same circumstances a heroine of a story would have slipped away; or, if that were impossible without discovery, she would have put her fingers in her ears, and would have been in a terrible state of agitation lest she should hear something not intended for her. I did not come there with a view to eavesdropping. It is a degradation to which I never stoop. I thought they were aware of my presence on the veranda; but it appears they were not, as they began to discuss me (wonderfully interesting subject to myself), and I stayed there, without one word of disapproval from my conscience, to listen to their conversation. “My word, didn’t gran make a to-do this morning when I proposed to train Sybylla for the stage! Do you know that girl is simply reeking with talent; I must have her trained. I will keep bringing the idea before gran until she gets used to it. I’ll work the we-should-use-the-gifts-God-has-given-us racket for all it is worth, and you might use your influence too, Helen.” “No, Everard; there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not use my influence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.” “But Sybylla _would_ succeed. I am a personal friend of the leading managers, and my influence would help her greatly.” “Yes; but what would you do with her? A young gentleman couldn’t take charge of a girl and bring her out without ruining her reputation. There would be no end of scandal, as the sister theory would only be nonsense.” “There is another way; I could easily stop scandal.” “Everard, what do you mean!” “I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately. “Surely, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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	described the fashionable balls, dinners, and garden-parties he attended. Having exhausted this subject, we fell to discussing books, and I recited snatches of poems dear to me. Everard placed his hands upon my shoulders and said: “Sybylla, do you know you are a most wonderful girl? Your figure is perfect, your style refreshing, and you have a most interesting face. It is as ever-changing as a kaleidoscope—sometimes merry, then stern, often sympathetic, and always sad when at rest. One would think you had had some sorrow in your life.” Lifting my skirt at either side, I bowed several times very low in what I called my stage bow, and called into requisition my stage smile, which displayed two rows of teeth as white and perfect as any twenty-guinea set turned out on a gold plate by a fashionable dentist. “The handsome gentleman is very kind to amuse himself at the expense of a little country bumpkin, but he would do well to ascertain if his flattery would go down before administering it next time,” I said sarcastically, and I heard him calling to me as I abruptly went off to shut myself in my room. “How dare anyone ridicule me by paying idle brainless compliments! I knew I was ugly, and did not want any one to perjure his soul pretending they thought differently. What right had I to be small? Why wasn’t I possessed of a big aquiline nose and a tall commanding figure?” Thus I sat in burning discontent and ill-humour until soothed by the scent of roses and the gleam of soft spring sunshine which streamed in through my open window. Some of the flower-beds in the garden were completely carpeted with pansy blossoms, all colours, and violets-blue and white, single and double. The scent of mignonette, jonquils, and narcissi filled the air. I revelled in rich perfumes, and these tempted me forth. My ruffled feelings gave way before the delights of the old garden. I collected a number of vases, and, filling them with water, set them on a table in the veranda near one of the drawing-room windows. I gathered lapfuls of the lovely blossoms, and commenced arranging them in the vases. Part of the old Caddagat house was built of slabs, and one of the wooden walls ran along the veranda side of the drawing-room, so the songs aunt Helen and Everard Grey were trying to the piano came as a sweet accompaniment to my congenial task. Presently they left off singing and commenced talking. Under the same circumstances a heroine of a story would have slipped away; or, if that were impossible without discovery, she would have put her fingers in her ears, and would have been in a terrible state of agitation lest she should hear something not intended for her. I did not come there with a view to eavesdropping. It is a degradation to which I never stoop. I thought they were aware of my presence on the veranda; but it appears they were not, as they began to discuss me (wonderfully interesting subject to myself), and I stayed there, without one word of disapproval from my conscience, to listen to their conversation. “My word, didn’t gran make a to-do this morning when I proposed to train Sybylla for the stage! Do you know that girl is simply reeking with talent; I must have her trained. I will keep bringing the idea before gran until she gets used to it. I’ll work the we-should-use-the-gifts-God-has-given-us racket for all it is worth, and you might use your influence too, Helen.” “No, Everard; there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not use my influence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.” “But Sybylla _would_ succeed. I am a personal friend of the leading managers, and my influence would help her greatly.” “Yes; but what would you do with her? A young gentleman couldn’t take charge of a girl and bring her out without ruining her reputation. There would be no end of scandal, as the sister theory would only be nonsense.” “There is another way; I could easily stop scandal.” “Everard, what do you mean!” “I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately. “Surely, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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. “But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?” “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	until she gets used to it. I’ll work the we-should-use-the-gifts-God-has-given-us racket for all it is worth, and you might use your influence too, Helen.” “No, Everard; there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not use my influence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.” “But Sybylla _would_ succeed. I am a personal friend of the leading managers, and my influence would help her greatly.” “Yes; but what would you do with her? A young gentleman couldn’t take charge of a girl and bring her out without ruining her reputation. There would be no end of scandal, as the sister theory would only be nonsense.” “There is another way; I could easily stop scandal.” “Everard, what do you mean!” “I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately. “Surely, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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	My Brilliant Career

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"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."	Mr. Herriton	I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said	English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall	unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t	lap. It was part of the idiot s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece. "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t you answer?" "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. "What s that?" "Hush--" "Whatever is that?" "Hush--sleeping." Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. She would not let him	has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this." There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind. "Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty." A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the idiot s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece. "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t you answer?" "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. "What s that?" "Hush--" "Whatever is that?" "Hush--sleeping." Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful interview--an interview between the South pole and the North. It was quite easy to conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing. "Poor Gino," he thought. "He s no greater than I am, after all." Then he thought of Miss	the lady give you this note?" he cried. The man was unintelligible. "Speak up!" exclaimed Philip. "Who gave it you--and where?" Nothing but horrible sighings and bubblings came out of the man. "Be patient with him," said the driver, turning round on the box. "It is the poor idiot." And the landlady came out of the hotel and echoed "The poor idiot. He cannot speak. He takes messages for us all." Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald, with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose. In another country he would have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and part of Nature s scheme. "Ugh!" shuddered the Englishman. "Signora padrona, find out from him; this note is from my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her?" "It is no good," said the landlady. "He understands everything but he can explain nothing." "He has visions of the saints," said the man who drove the cab. "But my sister--where has she gone? How has she met him?" "She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the English. "She has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this." There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind. "Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty." A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the idiot s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece. "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t you answer?" "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. "What s that?" "Hush--" "Whatever is that?" "Hush--sleeping." Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful interview--an interview between the South pole and the North. It was quite easy to conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing. "Poor Gino," he thought. "He s no greater than I am, after all." Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending the darkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusation failed. She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feel it again when she knew this day s sombre and unexpected close. "You have been pretty secret," he said; "you might tell me a little now. What do we pay for him? All we ve got?" "Hush!" answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like some bony prophetess--Judith, or Deborah, or Jael. He had last seen the baby sprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty miles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. And that remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and the poor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the expectation of sorrow to come. Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but the occasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp illumined as they passed it. They travelled quickly, for this driver did not care how fast he went to the station, and would dash down each incline and scuttle perilously round the curves. "Look here, Harriet," he said	his hand. "You sound despondent," he said, laughing. "Don t forget that you return victorious." "I suppose I do," she replied, more despondently than ever, and got into the carriage. He concluded that she was thinking of her reception at Sawston, whither her fame would doubtless precede her. Whatever would Mrs. Herriton do? She could make things quite unpleasant when she thought it right. She might think it right to be silent, but then there was Harriet. Who would bridle Harriet s tongue? Between the two of them Miss Abbott was bound to have a bad time. Her reputation, both for consistency and for moral enthusiasm, would be lost for ever. "It s hard luck on her," he thought. "She is a good person. I must do for her anything I can." Their intimacy had been very rapid, but he too hoped that it would not shift. He believed that he understood her, and that she, by now, had seen the worst of him. What if after a long time--if after all--he flushed like a boy as he looked after her carriage. He went into the dining-room to look for Harriet. Harriet was not to be found. Her bedroom, too, was empty. All that was left of her was the purple prayer-book which lay open on the bed. Philip took it up aimlessly, and saw--"Blessed be the Lord my God who teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight." He put the book in his pocket, and began to brood over more profitable themes. Santa Deodata gave out half past eight. All the luggage was on, and still Harriet had not appeared. "Depend upon it," said the landlady, "she has gone to Signor Carella s to say good-bye to her little nephew." Philip did not think it likely. They shouted all over the house and still there was no Harriet. He began to be uneasy. He was helpless without Miss Abbott; her grave, kind face had cheered him wonderfully, even when it looked displeased. Monteriano was sad without her; the rain was thickening; the scraps of Donizetti floated tunelessly out of the wineshops, and of the great tower opposite he could only see the base, fresh papered with the advertisements of quacks. A man came up the street with a note. Philip read, "Start at once. Pick me up outside the gate. Pay the bearer. H. H." "Did the lady give you this note?" he cried. The man was unintelligible. "Speak up!" exclaimed Philip. "Who gave it you--and where?" Nothing but horrible sighings and bubblings came out of the man. "Be patient with him," said the driver, turning round on the box. "It is the poor idiot." And the landlady came out of the hotel and echoed "The poor idiot. He cannot speak. He takes messages for us all." Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald, with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose. In another country he would have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and part of Nature s scheme. "Ugh!" shuddered the Englishman. "Signora padrona, find out from him; this note is from my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her?" "It is no good," said the landlady. "He understands everything but he can explain nothing." "He has visions of the saints," said the man who drove the cab. "But my sister--where has she gone? How has she met him?" "She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the English. "She has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this." There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind. "Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty." A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the idiot s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece. "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t you answer?" "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. "What s that?" "Hush--" "Whatever is that?" "Hush--sleeping." Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful interview--an interview between the South pole and the North. It was quite easy to conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing. "Poor Gino," he thought. "He s no greater than I am, after all." Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending the darkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusation failed. She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feel it again when she knew this day s sombre and unexpected close. "You have been pretty secret," he said; "you might tell me a little now. What do we pay for him? All we ve got?" "Hush!" answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like some bony prophetess--Judith, or Deborah, or Jael. He had last seen the baby sprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty miles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. And that remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and the poor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the expectation of sorrow to come. Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but the occasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp illumined as they passed it. They travelled quickly, for this driver did not care how fast he went to the station, and would dash down each incline and scuttle perilously round the curves. "Look here, Harriet," he said at last, "I feel bad; I want to see the baby." "Hush!" "I don t mind if I do wake him up. I want to see him. I ve as much right in him as you." Harriet gave in. But it was too dark for him to see the child s face. "Wait a minute," he whispered, and before she could stop him he had lit a match under the shelter of her umbrella. "But he s awake!" he exclaimed. The match went out. "Good ickle quiet boysey, then." Philip winced. "His face, do you know, struck me as all wrong." "All wrong?" "All puckered queerly." "Of course--with the shadows--you couldn t see him." "Well, hold him up again." She did so. He lit another match. It went out quickly, but not before he had seen that the baby was crying. "Nonsense," said Harriet sharply. "We should hear him if he cried." "No, he s crying hard; I thought so before, and I m certain now." Harriet touched the child s face. It was bathed in tears. "Oh, the night air, I suppose," she said, "or perhaps the wet of the rain." "I say, you haven t hurt it, or held it the wrong way, or anything; it is too uncanny--crying and no noise. Why didn t you get Perfetta to carry it to the hotel instead of muddling with the messenger? It s a marvel he understood about the note." "Oh, he understands." And he could feel her shudder. "He tried to carry the baby--" "But why not Gino or Perfetta?" "Philip, don t talk. Must I say it again? Don t talk. The baby wants to sleep." She crooned harshly as they descended, and now and then she wiped up the tears which welled inexhaustibly from the little eyes. Philip looked away, winking at times himself. It was as if they were travelling with the whole world s sorrow, as if all the mystery, all the persistency of woe were gathered to a single fount. The roads were now coated with mud, and the carriage went more quietly but not less swiftly, sliding by long zigzags into the night. He knew the landmarks pretty well: here was the crossroad to Poggibonsi; and the last view of Monteriano, if they had light, would be from here. Soon they ought to come to that little wood where violets were so	and echoed "The poor idiot. He cannot speak. He takes messages for us all." Philip then saw that the messenger was a ghastly creature, quite bald, with trickling eyes and grey twitching nose. In another country he would have been shut up; here he was accepted as a public institution, and part of Nature s scheme. "Ugh!" shuddered the Englishman. "Signora padrona, find out from him; this note is from my sister. What does it mean? Where did he see her?" "It is no good," said the landlady. "He understands everything but he can explain nothing." "He has visions of the saints," said the man who drove the cab. "But my sister--where has she gone? How has she met him?" "She has gone for a walk," asserted the landlady. It was a nasty evening, but she was beginning to understand the English. "She has gone for a walk--perhaps to wish good-bye to her little nephew. Preferring to come back another way, she has sent you this note by the poor idiot and is waiting for you outside the Siena gate. Many of my guests do this." There was nothing to do but to obey the message. He shook hands with the landlady, gave the messenger a nickel piece, and drove away. After a dozen yards the carriage stopped. The poor idiot was running and whimpering behind. "Go on," cried Philip. "I have paid him plenty." A horrible hand pushed three soldi into his lap. It was part of the idiot s malady only to receive what was just for his services. This was the change out of the nickel piece. "Go on!" shouted Philip, and flung the money into the road. He was frightened at the episode; the whole of life had become unreal. It was a relief to be out of the Siena gate. They drew up for a moment on the terrace. But there was no sign of Harriet. The driver called to the Dogana men. But they had seen no English lady pass. "What am I to do?" he cried;<\|quote\|>"it is not like the lady to be late. We shall miss the train."</\|quote\|>"Let us drive slowly," said the driver, "and you shall call her by name as we go." So they started down into the night, Philip calling "Harriet! Harriet! Harriet!" And there she was, waiting for them in the wet, at the first turn of the zigzag. "Harriet, why don t you answer?" "I heard you coming," said she, and got quickly in. Not till then did he see that she carried a bundle. "What s that?" "Hush--" "Whatever is that?" "Hush--sleeping." Harriet had succeeded where Miss Abbott and Philip had failed. It was the baby. She would not let him talk. The baby, she repeated, was asleep, and she put up an umbrella to shield it and her from the rain. He should hear all later, so he had to conjecture the course of the wonderful interview--an interview between the South pole and the North. It was quite easy to conjecture: Gino crumpling up suddenly before the intense conviction of Harriet; being told, perhaps, to his face that he was a villain; yielding his only son perhaps for money, perhaps for nothing. "Poor Gino," he thought. "He s no greater than I am, after all." Then he thought of Miss Abbott, whose carriage must be descending the darkness some mile or two below them, and his easy self-accusation failed. She, too, had conviction; he had felt its force; he would feel it again when she knew this day s sombre and unexpected close. "You have been pretty secret," he said; "you might tell me a little now. What do we pay for him? All we ve got?" "Hush!" answered Harriet, and dandled the bundle laboriously, like some bony prophetess--Judith, or Deborah, or Jael. He had last seen the baby sprawling on the knees of Miss Abbott, shining and naked, with twenty miles of view behind him, and his father kneeling by his feet. And that remembrance, together with Harriet, and the darkness, and the poor idiot, and the silent rain, filled him with sorrow and with the expectation of sorrow to come. Monteriano had long disappeared, and he could see nothing but the occasional wet stem of an olive, which their lamp	Where Angels Fear To Tread
"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."	Mrs. Adeline Archer	a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued:	made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain	brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added	"I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he brought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I was there when they came. If the van der	cousin Henry?" "The fact that they can be offended by such a trifle as Countess Olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common." "Consider--!" "Well, who is; but who has good music, and amuses people on Sunday evenings, when the whole of New York is dying of inanition." "Good music? All I know is, there was a woman who got up on a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in Paris. There was smoking and champagne." "Well--that kind of thing happens in other places, and the world still goes on." "I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he brought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I was there when they came. If the van der Luydens want to quarrel with anybody, the real culprit is under their own roof." "Quarrel? Newland, did you ever know of cousin Henry's quarrelling? Besides, the Duke's his guest; and a stranger too. Strangers don't discriminate: how should they? Countess Olenska is a New Yorker, and should have respected the feelings of New York." "Well, then, if they must have a victim, you have my leave to throw Madame Olenska to them," cried her son, exasperated. "I don't see myself--or you either--offering ourselves up to expiate her crimes." "Oh, of course you see only the Mingott side," his mother answered,	being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey--I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement sooner so that we might all back her up; and if it hadn't been for that cousin Louisa would never have invited her to the dinner for the Duke." "Well--what harm was there in inviting her? She was the best-looking woman in the room; she made the dinner a little less funereal than the usual van der Luyden banquet." "You know cousin Henry asked her to please you: he persuaded cousin Louisa. And now they're so upset that they're going back to Skuytercliff tomorrow. I think, Newland, you'd better come down. You don't seem to understand how mother feels." In the drawing-room Newland found his mother. She raised a troubled brow from her needlework to ask: "Has Janey told you?" "Yes." He tried to keep his tone as measured as her own. "But I can't take it very seriously." "Not the fact of having offended cousin Louisa and cousin Henry?" "The fact that they can be offended by such a trifle as Countess Olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common." "Consider--!" "Well, who is; but who has good music, and amuses people on Sunday evenings, when the whole of New York is dying of inanition." "Good music? All I know is, there was a woman who got up on a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in Paris. There was smoking and champagne." "Well--that kind of thing happens in other places, and the world still goes on." "I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he brought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I was there when they came. If the van der Luydens want to quarrel with anybody, the real culprit is under their own roof." "Quarrel? Newland, did you ever know of cousin Henry's quarrelling? Besides, the Duke's his guest; and a stranger too. Strangers don't discriminate: how should they? Countess Olenska is a New Yorker, and should have respected the feelings of New York." "Well, then, if they must have a victim, you have my leave to throw Madame Olenska to them," cried her son, exasperated. "I don't see myself--or you either--offering ourselves up to expiate her crimes." "Oh, of course you see only the Mingott side," his mother answered, in the sensitive tone that was her nearest approach to anger. The sad butler drew back the drawing-room portieres and announced: "Mr. Henry van der Luyden." Mrs. Archer dropped her needle and pushed her chair back with an agitated hand. "Another lamp," she cried to the retreating servant, while Janey bent over to straighten her mother's cap. Mr. van der Luyden's figure loomed on the threshold, and Newland Archer went forward to greet his cousin. "We were just talking about you, sir," he said. Mr. van der Luyden seemed overwhelmed by the announcement. He drew off his glove to shake hands with the ladies, and smoothed his tall hat shyly, while Janey pushed an arm-chair forward, and Archer continued: "And the Countess Olenska." Mrs. Archer paled. "Ah--a charming woman. I have just been to see her," said Mr. van der Luyden, complacency restored to his brow. He sank into the chair, laid his hat and gloves on the floor beside him in the old-fashioned way, and went on: "She has a real gift for arranging flowers. I had sent her a few carnations from Skuytercliff, and I was astonished. Instead of massing them in big bunches as our head-gardener does,	Mingott's, and the latter had instantly rung the little bell at her elbow and ordered the coachman to drive her home. "What if it had happened to Mrs. van der Luyden?" people asked each other with a shudder. Archer could hear Lawrence Lefferts, at that very hour, holding forth on the disintegration of society. He raised his head irritably when his sister Janey entered, and then quickly bent over his book (Swinburne's "Chastelard"--just out) as if he had not seen her. She glanced at the writing-table heaped with books, opened a volume of the "Contes Drolatiques," made a wry face over the archaic French, and sighed: "What learned things you read!" "Well--?" he asked, as she hovered Cassandra-like before him. "Mother's very angry." "Angry? With whom? About what?" "Miss Sophy Jackson has just been here. She brought word that her brother would come in after dinner: she couldn't say very much, because he forbade her to: he wishes to give all the details himself. He's with cousin Louisa van der Luyden now." "For heaven's sake, my dear girl, try a fresh start. It would take an omniscient Deity to know what you're talking about." "It's not a time to be profane, Newland.... Mother feels badly enough about your not going to church ..." With a groan he plunged back into his book. "NEWLAND! Do listen. Your friend Madame Olenska was at Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's party last night: she went there with the Duke and Mr. Beaufort." At the last clause of this announcement a senseless anger swelled the young man's breast. To smother it he laughed. "Well, what of it? I knew she meant to." Janey paled and her eyes began to project. "You knew she meant to--and you didn't try to stop her? To warn her?" "Stop her? Warn her?" He laughed again. "I'm not engaged to be married to the Countess Olenska!" The words had a fantastic sound in his own ears. "You're marrying into her family." "Oh, family--family!" he jeered. "Newland--don't you care about Family?" "Not a brass farthing." "Nor about what cousin Louisa van der Luyden will think?" "Not the half of one--if she thinks such old maid's rubbish." "Mother is not an old maid," said his virgin sister with pinched lips. He felt like shouting back: "Yes, she is, and so are the van der Luydens, and so we all are, when it comes to being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey--I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement sooner so that we might all back her up; and if it hadn't been for that cousin Louisa would never have invited her to the dinner for the Duke." "Well--what harm was there in inviting her? She was the best-looking woman in the room; she made the dinner a little less funereal than the usual van der Luyden banquet." "You know cousin Henry asked her to please you: he persuaded cousin Louisa. And now they're so upset that they're going back to Skuytercliff tomorrow. I think, Newland, you'd better come down. You don't seem to understand how mother feels." In the drawing-room Newland found his mother. She raised a troubled brow from her needlework to ask: "Has Janey told you?" "Yes." He tried to keep his tone as measured as her own. "But I can't take it very seriously." "Not the fact of having offended cousin Louisa and cousin Henry?" "The fact that they can be offended by such a trifle as Countess Olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common." "Consider--!" "Well, who is; but who has good music, and amuses people on Sunday evenings, when the whole of New York is dying of inanition." "Good music? All I know is, there was a woman who got up on a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in Paris. There was smoking and champagne." "Well--that kind of thing happens in other places, and the world still goes on." "I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he brought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I was there when they came. If the van der Luydens want to quarrel with anybody, the real culprit is under their own roof." "Quarrel? Newland, did you ever know of cousin Henry's quarrelling? Besides, the Duke's his guest; and a stranger too. Strangers don't discriminate: how should they? Countess Olenska is a New Yorker, and should have respected the feelings of New York." "Well, then, if they must have a victim, you have my leave to throw Madame Olenska to them," cried her son, exasperated. "I don't see myself--or you either--offering ourselves up to expiate her crimes." "Oh, of course you see only the Mingott side," his mother answered, in the sensitive tone that was her nearest approach to anger. The sad butler drew back the drawing-room portieres and announced: "Mr. Henry van der Luyden." Mrs. Archer dropped her needle and pushed her chair back with an agitated hand. "Another lamp," she cried to the retreating servant, while Janey bent over to straighten her mother's cap. Mr. van der Luyden's figure loomed on the threshold, and Newland Archer went forward to greet his cousin. "We were just talking about you, sir," he said. Mr. van der Luyden seemed overwhelmed by the announcement. He drew off his glove to shake hands with the ladies, and smoothed his tall hat shyly, while Janey pushed an arm-chair forward, and Archer continued: "And the Countess Olenska." Mrs. Archer paled. "Ah--a charming woman. I have just been to see her," said Mr. van der Luyden, complacency restored to his brow. He sank into the chair, laid his hat and gloves on the floor beside him in the old-fashioned way, and went on: "She has a real gift for arranging flowers. I had sent her a few carnations from Skuytercliff, and I was astonished. Instead of massing them in big bunches as our head-gardener does, she had scattered them about loosely, here and there ... I can't say how. The Duke had told me: he said: 'Go and see how cleverly she's arranged her drawing-room.' And she has. I should really like to take Louisa to see her, if the neighbourhood were not so--unpleasant." A dead silence greeted this unusual flow of words from Mr. van der Luyden. Mrs. Archer drew her embroidery out of the basket into which she had nervously tumbled it, and Newland, leaning against the chimney-place and twisting a humming-bird-feather screen in his hand, saw Janey's gaping countenance lit up by the coming of the second lamp. "The fact is," Mr. van der Luyden continued, stroking his long grey leg with a bloodless hand weighed down by the Patroon's great signet-ring, "the fact is, I dropped in to thank her for the very pretty note she wrote me about my flowers; and also--but this is between ourselves, of course--to give her a friendly warning about allowing the Duke to carry her off to parties with him. I don't know if you've heard--" Mrs. Archer produced an indulgent smile. "Has the Duke been carrying her off to parties?" "You know what these English grandees are. They're all alike. Louisa and I are very fond of our cousin--but it's hopeless to expect people who are accustomed to the European courts to trouble themselves about our little republican distinctions. The Duke goes where he's amused." Mr. van der Luyden paused, but no one spoke. "Yes--it seems he took her with him last night to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's. Sillerton Jackson has just been to us with the foolish story, and Louisa was rather troubled. So I thought the shortest way was to go straight to Countess Olenska and explain--by the merest hint, you know--how we feel in New York about certain things. I felt I might, without indelicacy, because the evening she dined with us she rather suggested ... rather let me see that she would be grateful for guidance. And she WAS." Mr. van der Luyden looked about the room with what would have been self-satisfaction on features less purged of the vulgar passions. On his face it became a mild benevolence which Mrs. Archer's countenance dutifully reflected. "How kind you both are, dear Henry--always! Newland will particularly appreciate what you have done because of dear May and his new relations." She shot an	To warn her?" "Stop her? Warn her?" He laughed again. "I'm not engaged to be married to the Countess Olenska!" The words had a fantastic sound in his own ears. "You're marrying into her family." "Oh, family--family!" he jeered. "Newland--don't you care about Family?" "Not a brass farthing." "Nor about what cousin Louisa van der Luyden will think?" "Not the half of one--if she thinks such old maid's rubbish." "Mother is not an old maid," said his virgin sister with pinched lips. He felt like shouting back: "Yes, she is, and so are the van der Luydens, and so we all are, when it comes to being so much as brushed by the wing-tip of Reality." But he saw her long gentle face puckering into tears, and felt ashamed of the useless pain he was inflicting. "Hang Countess Olenska! Don't be a goose, Janey--I'm not her keeper." "No; but you DID ask the Wellands to announce your engagement sooner so that we might all back her up; and if it hadn't been for that cousin Louisa would never have invited her to the dinner for the Duke." "Well--what harm was there in inviting her? She was the best-looking woman in the room; she made the dinner a little less funereal than the usual van der Luyden banquet." "You know cousin Henry asked her to please you: he persuaded cousin Louisa. And now they're so upset that they're going back to Skuytercliff tomorrow. I think, Newland, you'd better come down. You don't seem to understand how mother feels." In the drawing-room Newland found his mother. She raised a troubled brow from her needlework to ask: "Has Janey told you?" "Yes." He tried to keep his tone as measured as her own. "But I can't take it very seriously." "Not the fact of having offended cousin Louisa and cousin Henry?" "The fact that they can be offended by such a trifle as Countess Olenska's going to the house of a woman they consider common." "Consider--!" "Well, who is; but who has good music, and amuses people on Sunday evenings, when the whole of New York is dying of inanition." "Good music? All I know is, there was a woman who got up on a table and sang the things they sing at the places you go to in Paris. There was smoking and champagne." "Well--that kind of thing happens in other places, and the world still goes on." "I don't suppose, dear, you're really defending the French Sunday?" "I've heard you often enough, mother, grumble at the English Sunday when we've been in London." "New York is neither Paris nor London." "Oh, no, it's not!" her son groaned. "You mean, I suppose, that society here is not as brilliant? You're right, I daresay; but we belong here, and people should respect our ways when they come among us. Ellen Olenska especially: she came back to get away from the kind of life people lead in brilliant societies." Newland made no answer, and after a moment his mother ventured:<\|quote\|>"I was going to put on my bonnet and ask you to take me to see cousin Louisa for a moment before dinner."</\|quote\|>He frowned, and she continued: "I thought you might explain to her what you've just said: that society abroad is different ... that people are not as particular, and that Madame Olenska may not have realised how we feel about such things. It would be, you know, dear," she added with an innocent adroitness, "in Madame Olenska's interest if you did." "Dearest mother, I really don't see how we're concerned in the matter. The Duke took Madame Olenska to Mrs. Struthers's--in fact he brought Mrs. Struthers to call on her. I was there when they came. If the van der Luydens want to quarrel with anybody, the real culprit is under their own roof." "Quarrel? Newland, did you ever know of cousin Henry's quarrelling? Besides, the Duke's his guest; and a stranger too. Strangers don't discriminate: how should they? Countess Olenska is a New Yorker, and should have respected the feelings of New York." "Well, then, if they must have a victim, you have my leave to throw Madame Olenska to them," cried her son, exasperated. "I don't see myself--or you either--offering ourselves up to expiate her crimes." "Oh, of course you see only the Mingott side," his mother answered, in the sensitive tone that was her nearest approach to anger. The sad butler drew back the drawing-room portieres and announced: "Mr. Henry van der Luyden." Mrs. Archer dropped her needle and pushed her chair back with an agitated hand. "Another lamp," she cried to the retreating servant, while Janey bent over to straighten her mother's cap. Mr. van der Luyden's figure loomed on the threshold, and Newland Archer went forward to greet his cousin. "We were just talking about you, sir," he said. Mr. van der Luyden seemed overwhelmed by the announcement. He drew off his glove to shake hands with the ladies, and smoothed his tall hat shyly, while Janey pushed an arm-chair forward, and Archer continued: "And the Countess Olenska." Mrs. Archer paled. "Ah--a charming woman. I have just been to see her," said Mr. van der Luyden, complacency restored to his brow. He sank into the chair, laid his hat and gloves on the floor beside him in the old-fashioned way, and went on: "She has a real gift for arranging flowers. I had sent her a few carnations from Skuytercliff, and I was astonished. Instead of massing them in big bunches as our head-gardener does, she had scattered them about loosely, here and there ... I can't say how. The Duke had told me: he said: 'Go and see how cleverly she's arranged her drawing-room.' And she has. I should really like to take Louisa to see her, if the neighbourhood were not so--unpleasant." A dead silence greeted this unusual flow of words from Mr. van der Luyden. Mrs. Archer drew	The Age Of Innocence
said Syme, quite motionless,	No speaker	elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth	stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then	to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was	you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet,	to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even	pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election" His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting. "Stop, you blasted madmen!" he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. "Stop, you" But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it" (loud and prolonged cheering). "To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore you. Do not elect this man." "Comrade Gregory," said the chairman after a painful pause, "this is really not quite dignified." For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again "The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of	treat. Do we line these walls with weapons and bar that door with death lest anyone should come and hear Comrade Gregory saying to us, Be good, and you will be happy,' Honesty is the best policy,' and Virtue is its own reward'? There was not a word in Comrade Gregory's address to which a curate could not have listened with pleasure" (hear, hear). "But I am not a curate" (loud cheers), "and I did not listen to it with pleasure" (renewed cheers). "The man who is fitted to make a good curate is not fitted to make a resolute, forcible, and efficient Thursday" (hear, hear)." "Comrade Gregory has told us, in only too apologetic a tone, that we are not the enemies of society. But I say that we are the enemies of society, and so much the worse for society. We are the enemies of society, for society is the enemy of humanity, its oldest and its most pitiless enemy" (hear, hear). "Comrade Gregory has told us (apologetically again) that we are not murderers. There I agree. We are not murderers, we are executioners (cheers)." Ever since Syme had risen Gregory had sat staring at him, his face idiotic with astonishment. Now in the pause his lips of clay parted, and he said, with an automatic and lifeless distinctness "You damnable hypocrite!" Syme looked straight into those frightful eyes with his own pale blue ones, and said with dignity "Comrade Gregory accuses me of hypocrisy. He knows as well as I do that I am keeping all my engagements and doing nothing but my duty. I do not mince words. I do not pretend to. I say that Comrade Gregory is unfit to be Thursday for all his amiable qualities. He is unfit to be Thursday because of his amiable qualities. We do not want the Supreme Council of Anarchy infected with a maudlin mercy" (hear, hear). "This is no time for ceremonial politeness, neither is it a time for ceremonial modesty. I set myself against Comrade Gregory as I would set myself against all the Governments of Europe, because the anarchist who has given himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride" (cheers). "I am not a man at all. I am a cause" (renewed cheers). "I set myself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally and as calmly as I should choose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election" His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting. "Stop, you blasted madmen!" he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. "Stop, you" But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it" (loud and prolonged cheering). "To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you. I throw myself at your feet. I implore you. Do not elect this man." "Comrade Gregory," said the chairman after a painful pause, "this is really not quite dignified." For the first time in the proceedings there was for a few seconds a real silence. Then Gregory fell back in his seat, a pale wreck of a man, and the chairman repeated, like a piece of clock-work suddenly started again "The question is that Comrade Syme be elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council." The roar rose like the sea, the hands rose like a forest, and three minutes afterwards Mr. Gabriel Syme, of the Secret Police Service, was elected to the post of Thursday on the General Council of the Anarchists of Europe. Everyone in the room seemed to feel the tug waiting on the river, the sword-stick and the revolver, waiting on the table. The instant the election was ended and irrevocable, and Syme had received the paper proving his election, they all sprang to their feet, and the fiery groups moved and mixed in the room. Syme found himself, somehow or other, face to face with Gregory, who still regarded him with a stare of stunned hatred. They were silent for many minutes. "You are a devil!" said Gregory at last. "And you are a gentleman," said Syme with gravity. "It was you that entrapped me," began Gregory, shaking from head to foot, "entrapped me into" "Talk sense," said Syme shortly. "Into what sort of devils' parliament have you entrapped me, if it comes to that? You made me swear before I made you. Perhaps we are both doing what we think right. But what we think right is so damned different that there can be nothing between us in the way of concession. There is nothing possible between us but honour and death," and he pulled the great cloak about his shoulders and picked up the flask from the table. "The boat is quite ready," said Mr. Buttons, bustling up. "Be good enough to step this way." With a gesture that revealed the shop-walker, he led Syme down a short, iron-bound passage, the still agonised Gregory following feverishly at their heels. At the end of the passage was a door, which Buttons opened sharply, showing a sudden blue and silver picture of the moonlit river, that looked like a scene in a theatre. Close to the opening lay a dark, dwarfish steam-launch, like a baby dragon with one red eye. Almost in the act of stepping on board, Gabriel Syme turned to the gaping Gregory. "You have kept your word," he said gently, with his face in shadow. "You are a man of honour, and I thank you. You have kept it even down to a small particular. There was one special thing you promised me at the beginning of the affair, and which you	himself to anarchy has forgotten modesty as much as he has forgotten pride" (cheers). "I am not a man at all. I am a cause" (renewed cheers). "I set myself against Comrade Gregory as impersonally and as calmly as I should choose one pistol rather than another out of that rack upon the wall; and I say that rather than have Gregory and his milk-and-water methods on the Supreme Council, I would offer myself for election" His sentence was drowned in a deafening cataract of applause. The faces, that had grown fiercer and fiercer with approval as his tirade grew more and more uncompromising, were now distorted with grins of anticipation or cloven with delighted cries. At the moment when he announced himself as ready to stand for the post of Thursday, a roar of excitement and assent broke forth, and became uncontrollable, and at the same moment Gregory sprang to his feet, with foam upon his mouth, and shouted against the shouting. "Stop, you blasted madmen!" he cried, at the top of a voice that tore his throat. "Stop, you" But louder than Gregory's shouting and louder than the roar of the room came the voice of Syme, still speaking in a peal of pitiless thunder "I do not go to the Council to rebut that slander that calls us murderers; I go to earn it" (loud and prolonged cheering). "To the priest who says these men are the enemies of religion, to the judge who says these men are the enemies of law, to the fat parliamentarian who says these men are the enemies of order and public decency, to all these I will reply, You are false kings, but you are true prophets. I am come to destroy you, and to fulfil your prophecies." '" The heavy clamour gradually died away, but before it had ceased Witherspoon had jumped to his feet, his hair and beard all on end, and had said "I move, as an amendment, that Comrade Syme be appointed to the post." "Stop all this, I tell you!" cried Gregory, with frantic face and hands. "Stop it, it is all" The voice of the chairman clove his speech with a cold accent. "Does anyone second this amendment?" he said. A tall, tired man, with melancholy eyes and an American chin beard, was observed on the back bench to be slowly rising to his feet. Gregory had been screaming for some time past; now there was a change in his accent, more shocking than any scream. "I end all this!" he said, in a voice as heavy as stone. "This man cannot be elected. He is a" "Yes,"<\|quote\|>said Syme, quite motionless,</\|quote\|>"what is he?" Gregory's mouth worked twice without sound; then slowly the blood began to crawl back into his dead face. "He is a man quite inexperienced in our work," he said, and sat down abruptly. Before he had done so, the long, lean man with the American beard was again upon his feet, and was repeating in a high American monotone "I beg to second the election of Comrade Syme." "The amendment will, as usual, be put first," said Mr. Buttons, the chairman, with mechanical rapidity. "The question is that Comrade Syme" Gregory had again sprung to his feet, panting and passionate. "Comrades," he cried out, "I am not a madman." "Oh, oh!" said Mr. Witherspoon. "I am not a madman," reiterated Gregory, with a frightful sincerity which for a moment staggered the room, "but I give you a counsel which you can call mad if you like. No, I will not call it a counsel, for I can give you no reason for it. I will call it a command. Call it a mad command, but act upon it. Strike, but hear me! Kill me, but obey me! Do not elect this man." Truth is so terrible, even in fetters, that for a moment Syme's slender and insane victory swayed like a reed. But you could not have guessed it from Syme's bleak blue eyes. He merely began "Comrade Gregory commands" Then the spell was snapped, and one anarchist called out to Gregory "Who are you? You are not Sunday;" and another anarchist added in a heavier voice, "And you are not Thursday." "Comrades," cried Gregory, in a voice like that of a martyr who in an ecstacy of pain has passed beyond pain, "it is nothing to me whether you detest me as a tyrant or detest me as a slave. If you will not take my command, accept my degradation. I kneel to you.	The Man Who Was Thursday
"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."	Jane Fairfax	again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your	are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of	family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge	I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April,	about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are	at her tongue's end--but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each. CHAPTER XVII When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect." "Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition." "I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do." "Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life." "You are very obliging;	unequal to speaking his name at once before all these people? Is it necessary for me to use any roundabout phrase?--Your Yorkshire friend--your correspondent in Yorkshire;--that would be the way, I suppose, if I were very bad.--No, I can pronounce his name without the smallest distress. I certainly get better and better.--Now for it." Mrs. Weston was disengaged and Emma began again--" "Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentleman's hands I ever saw." "I do not admire it," said Mr. Knightley. "It is too small--wants strength. It is like a woman's writing." This was not submitted to by either lady. They vindicated him against the base aspersion. "No, it by no means wanted strength--it was not a large hand, but very clear and certainly strong. Had not Mrs. Weston any letter about her to produce?" No, she had heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, had put it away. "If we were in the other room," said Emma, "if I had my writing-desk, I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his.--Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?" "He chose to say he was employed" "-- "Well, well, I have that note; and can shew it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley." "Oh! when a gallant young man, like Mr. Frank Churchill," said Mr. Knightley dryly, "writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best." Dinner was on table.--Mrs. Elton, before she could be spoken to, was ready; and before Mr. Woodhouse had reached her with his request to be allowed to hand her into the dining-parlour, was saying-- "Must I go first? I really am ashamed of always leading the way." Jane's solicitude about fetching her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits. She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each. CHAPTER XVII When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect." "Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition." "I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do." "Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life." "You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for." "I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or I have any rest." "You may well class the delight, the honour, and the comfort of such a situation together," said Jane, "they are pretty sure to be equal; however, I am very serious in not wishing any thing to be attempted at present for me. I am exceedingly obliged to you, Mrs. Elton, I am obliged to any body who feels for me, but I am quite serious in wishing nothing to be done till the summer. For two or three months longer I shall remain where I am, and as I am." "And I am quite serious too, I assure you," replied Mrs. Elton gaily, "in resolving to be always on the watch, and employing my friends to watch also, that nothing really unexceptionable may pass us." In this style she ran on; never thoroughly stopped by any thing till Mr. Woodhouse came into the room; her vanity had then a change of object, and Emma heard her saying in the same half-whisper to Jane, "Here comes this dear old beau of mine, I protest!--Only think of his gallantry in coming away before the other men!--what a dear creature he is;--I assure you I like him excessively. I admire all that quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern ease; modern ease often disgusts me. But this good old	her own letters had not escaped Emma. She had heard and seen it all; and felt some curiosity to know whether the wet walk of this morning had produced any. She suspected that it _had_; that it would not have been so resolutely encountered but in full expectation of hearing from some one very dear, and that it had not been in vain. She thought there was an air of greater happiness than usual--a glow both of complexion and spirits. She could have made an inquiry or two, as to the expedition and the expense of the Irish mails;--it was at her tongue's end--but she abstained. She was quite determined not to utter a word that should hurt Jane Fairfax's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with an appearance of good-will highly becoming to the beauty and grace of each. CHAPTER XVII When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent their making two distinct parties;--with so much perseverance in judging and behaving ill did Mrs. Elton engross Jane Fairfax and slight herself. She and Mrs. Weston were obliged to be almost always either talking together or silent together. Mrs. Elton left them no choice. If Jane repressed her for a little time, she soon began again; and though much that passed between them was in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Elton's side, there was no avoiding a knowledge of their principal subjects: The post-office--catching cold--fetching letters--and friendship, were long under discussion; and to them succeeded one, which must be at least equally unpleasant to Jane--inquiries whether she had yet heard of any situation likely to suit her, and professions of Mrs. Elton's meditated activity. "Here is April come!" said she, "I get quite anxious about you. June will soon be here." "But I have never fixed on June or any other month--merely looked forward to the summer in general." "But have you really heard of nothing?" "I have not even made any inquiry; I do not wish to make any yet." "Oh! my dear, we cannot begin too early; you are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly the desirable thing." "I not aware!" said Jane, shaking her head; "dear Mrs. Elton, who can have thought of it as I have done?" "But you have not seen so much of the world as I have. You do not know how many candidates there always are for the _first_ situations. I saw a vast deal of that in the neighbourhood round Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had such an infinity of applications; every body was anxious to be in her family, for she moves in the first circle. Wax-candles in the schoolroom! You may imagine how desirable! Of all houses in the kingdom Mrs. Bragge's is the one I would most wish to see you in." "Colonel and Mrs. Campbell are to be in town again by midsummer," said Jane.<\|quote\|>"I must spend some time with them; I am sure they will want it;--afterwards I may probably be glad to dispose of myself. But I would not wish you to take the trouble of making any inquiries at present."</\|quote\|>"Trouble! aye, I know your scruples. You are afraid of giving me trouble; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly be more interested about you than I am. I shall write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two, and shall give her a strict charge to be on the look-out for any thing eligible." "Thank you, but I would rather you did not mention the subject to her; till the time draws nearer, I do not wish to be giving any body trouble." "But, my dear child, the time is drawing near; here is April, and June, or say even July, is very near, with such business to accomplish before us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation such as you deserve, and your friends would require for you, is no everyday occurrence, is not obtained at a moment's notice; indeed, indeed, we must begin inquiring directly." "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is by no means my intention; I make no inquiry myself, and should be sorry to have any made by my friends. When I am quite determined as to the time, I am not at all afraid of being long unemployed. There are places in town, offices, where inquiry would soon produce something--Offices for the sale--not quite of human flesh--but of human intellect." "Oh! my dear, human flesh! You quite shock me; if you mean a fling at the slave-trade, I assure you Mr. Suckling was always rather a friend to the abolition." "I did not mean, I was not thinking of the slave-trade," replied Jane; "governess-trade, I assure you, was all that I had in view; widely different certainly as to the guilt of those who carry it on; but as to the greater misery of the victims, I do not know where it lies. But I only mean to say that there are advertising offices, and that by applying to them I should have no doubt of very soon meeting with something that would do." "Something that would do!" repeated Mrs. Elton. "Aye, _that_ may suit your humble ideas of yourself;--I know what a modest creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends to have you taking up with any thing that may offer, any inferior, commonplace situation, in a family not moving in a certain circle, or able to command the elegancies of life." "You are very obliging; but as to all that, I am very indifferent; it would be no object to me to be with the rich; my mortifications, I think, would only be the greater; I should suffer more from comparison. A gentleman's family is all that I should condition for." "I know you, I know you; you would take up with any thing; but I shall be a little more nice, and I am sure the good Campbells will be quite on my side; with your superior talents, you have a right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, have as many rooms as you like, and mix in the family as much as you chose;--that is--I do not know--if you knew the harp, you might do all that, I am very sure; but you sing as well as play;--yes, I really believe you might, even without the harp, stipulate for what you chose;--and you must and shall be delightfully, honourably and comfortably settled before the Campbells or	Emma
"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"	Newland Archer	got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're	them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling	clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home."	I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of	were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife	she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance." The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened	call, say I'm asleep." The maid disappeared, and the old lady turned to her grandson. "My dear, am I perfectly hideous?" she asked gaily, launching out one hand in search of the folds of muslin on her inaccessible bosom. "My daughters tell me it doesn't matter at my age--as if hideousness didn't matter all the more the harder it gets to conceal!" "My dear, you're handsomer than ever!" Archer rejoined in the same tone; and she threw back her head and laughed. "Ah, but not as handsome as Ellen!" she jerked out, twinkling at him maliciously; and before he could answer she added: "Was she so awfully handsome the day you drove her up from the ferry?" He laughed, and she continued: "Was it because you told her so that she had to put you out on the way? In my youth young men didn't desert pretty women unless they were made to!" She gave another chuckle, and interrupted it to say almost querulously: "It's a pity she didn't marry you; I always told her so. It would have spared me all this worry. But who ever thought of sparing their grandmother worry?" Archer wondered if her illness had blurred her faculties; but suddenly she broke out: "Well, it's settled, anyhow: she's going to stay with me, whatever the rest of the family say! She hadn't been here five minutes before I'd have gone down on my knees to keep her--if only, for the last twenty years, I'd been able to see where the floor was!" Archer listened in silence, and she went on: "They'd talked me over, as no doubt you know: persuaded me, Lovell, and Letterblair, and Augusta Welland, and all the rest of them, that I must hold out and cut off her allowance, till she was made to see that it was her duty to go back to Olenski. They thought they'd convinced me when the secretary, or whatever he was, came out with the last proposals: handsome proposals I confess they were. After all, marriage is marriage, and money's money--both useful things in their way ... and I didn't know what to answer--" She broke off and drew a long breath, as if speaking had become an effort. "But the minute I laid eyes on her, I said:" 'You sweet bird, you! Shut you up in that cage again? Never!' "And now it's settled that she's to stay here and nurse her Granny as long as there's a Granny to nurse. It's not a gay prospect, but she doesn't mind; and of course I've told Letterblair that she's to be given her proper allowance." The young man heard her with veins aglow; but in his confusion of mind he hardly knew whether her news brought joy or pain. He had so definitely decided on the course he meant to pursue that for the moment he could not readjust his thoughts. But gradually there stole over him the delicious sense of difficulties deferred and opportunities miraculously provided. If Ellen had consented to come and live with her grandmother it must surely be because she had recognised the impossibility of giving him up. This was her answer to his final appeal of the other day: if she would not take the extreme step he had urged, she had at last yielded to half-measures. He sank back into the thought with the involuntary relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided to remain under her roof--especially now that Mrs. Mingott had almost regained her health--was less easy to explain. Archer was sure that Madame Olenska's decision had not been influenced by the change in her financial situation. He knew the exact figure of the small income which her husband had allowed her at their separation. Without the addition of her grandmother's allowance it was hardly enough to live on, in any sense known to the Mingott vocabulary; and now that Medora Manson, who shared her life, had been ruined, such a pittance would barely keep the two women clothed and fed. Yet Archer was convinced that Madame Olenska had not accepted her grandmother's offer from interested motives. She had the heedless generosity and the spasmodic extravagance of persons used to large fortunes, and indifferent to money; but she could go without many things which her relations considered indispensable, and Mrs. Lovell Mingott and Mrs. Welland had often been heard to deplore that any one who had enjoyed the cosmopolitan luxuries of Count Olenski's establishments should care so little about "how things were done." Moreover, as Archer knew, several months had passed since her allowance had been cut off; yet in the interval she had made no effort to regain her grandmother's favour. Therefore if she had changed her course it must be for a different reason. He did not have far to seek for that reason. On the way from the ferry she had told him that he and she must remain apart; but she had said it with her head on his breast. He knew that there was no calculated coquetry in her words; she was fighting her fate as he had fought his, and clinging desperately to her resolve that they should not break faith with the people who trusted them. But during the ten days which had elapsed since her return to New York she had perhaps guessed from his silence, and from the fact of his making no attempt to see her, that he was meditating a decisive step, a step from which there was no turning back. At the thought, a sudden fear of her own weakness might have seized her, and she might have felt that, after all, it was better to accept the compromise usual in such cases, and follow	relief of a man who has been ready to risk everything, and suddenly tastes the dangerous sweetness of security. "She couldn't have gone back--it was impossible!" he exclaimed. "Ah, my dear, I always knew you were on her side; and that's why I sent for you today, and why I said to your pretty wife, when she proposed to come with you: 'No, my dear, I'm pining to see Newland, and I don't want anybody to share our transports.' For you see, my dear--" she drew her head back as far as its tethering chins permitted, and looked him full in the eyes--" "you see, we shall have a fight yet. The family don't want her here, and they'll say it's because I've been ill, because I'm a weak old woman, that she's persuaded me. I'm not well enough yet to fight them one by one, and you've got to do it for me." "I?" he stammered. "You. Why not?" she jerked back at him, her round eyes suddenly as sharp as pen-knives. Her hand fluttered from its chair-arm and lit on his with a clutch of little pale nails like bird-claws. "Why not?" she searchingly repeated. Archer, under the exposure of her gaze, had recovered his self-possession. "Oh, I don't count--I'm too insignificant." "Well, you're Letterblair's partner, ain't you? You've got to get at them through Letterblair. Unless you've got a reason," she insisted.<\|quote\|>"Oh, my dear, I back you to hold your own against them all without my help; but you shall have it if you need it,"</\|quote\|>he reassured her. "Then we're safe!" she sighed; and smiling on him with all her ancient cunning she added, as she settled her head among the cushions: "I always knew you'd back us up, because they never quote you when they talk about its being her duty to go home." He winced a little at her terrifying perspicacity, and longed to ask: "And May--do they quote her?" But he judged it safer to turn the question. "And Madame Olenska? When am I to see her?" he said. The old lady chuckled, crumpled her lids, and went through the pantomime of archness. "Not today. One at a time, please. Madame Olenska's gone out." He flushed with disappointment, and she went on: "She's gone out, my child: gone in my carriage to see Regina Beaufort." She paused for this announcement to produce its effect. "That's what she's reduced me to already. The day after she got here she put on her best bonnet, and told me, as cool as a cucumber, that she was going to call on Regina Beaufort." 'I don't know her; who is she?' "says I." 'She's your grand-niece, and a most unhappy woman,' "she says." 'She's the wife of a scoundrel,' "I answered." 'Well,' "she says," 'and so am I, and yet all my family want me to go back to him.' "Well, that floored me, and I let her go; and finally one day she said it was raining too hard to go out on foot, and she wanted me to lend her my carriage." 'What for?' "I asked her; and she said:" 'To go and see cousin Regina' "--COUSIN! Now, my dear, I looked out of the window, and saw it wasn't raining a drop; but I understood her, and I let her have the carriage.... After all, Regina's a brave woman, and so is she; and I've always liked courage above everything." Archer bent down and pressed his lips on the little hand that still lay on his. "Eh--eh--eh! Whose hand did you think you were kissing, young man--your wife's, I hope?" the old lady snapped out with her mocking cackle; and as he rose to go she called out after him: "Give her her Granny's love; but you'd better not say anything about our talk." XXXI. Archer had been stunned by old Catherine's news. It was only natural that Madame Olenska should have hastened from Washington in response to her grandmother's summons; but that she should have decided to remain under her roof--especially now that Mrs. Mingott had almost regained her health--was less easy to explain. Archer was sure that Madame Olenska's decision had not been influenced by the change in her financial situation. He knew the exact figure of the small income which her husband had allowed her at their separation. Without the addition of her grandmother's allowance it was hardly enough to live on, in any sense known to the Mingott vocabulary; and now that Medora Manson, who shared her life, had been ruined, such a pittance would barely keep the two women clothed and fed. Yet Archer was convinced that Madame Olenska had not accepted her grandmother's offer from interested motives. She had the heedless generosity and the spasmodic extravagance of persons used to	The Age Of Innocence
said Anne,	No speaker	bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much.	with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I	comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted.	nicer." "I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?" All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert	not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this." When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. "Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with _such_ sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer." "I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?" All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. "Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. "Everything went off very well," said Diana practically. "I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of	had suddenly filled with tears. "Like it! Oh, Matthew!" Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. "Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream." "Well, well, let us have breakfast," interrupted Marilla. "I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the dress; but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There's a hair ribbon Mrs. Lynde left for you. It's brown, to match the dress. Come now, sit in." "I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast," said Anne rapturously. "Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment. I'd rather feast my eyes on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It's at times like this I'm sorry I'm not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this." When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. "Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with _such_ sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer." "I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?" All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. "Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. "Everything went off very well," said Diana practically. "I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers." "Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrill to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was encored. I just said to myself," ?It is my dear bosom friend who is so honored.'" "Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid." "Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan called out my name I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practiced those recitations so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right?" "Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely," assured Diana. "I	good, warm, serviceable ones this fall, and anything more is sheer extravagance. There's enough material in those sleeves alone to make a waist, I declare there is. You'll just pamper Anne's vanity, Matthew, and she's as vain as a peacock now. Well, I hope she'll be satisfied at last, for I know she's been hankering after those silly sleeves ever since they came in, although she never said a word after the first. The puffs have been getting bigger and more ridiculous right along; they're as big as balloons now. Next year anybody who wears them will have to go through a door sideways." Christmas morning broke on a beautiful white world. It had been a very mild December and people had looked forward to a green Christmas; but just enough snow fell softly in the night to transfigure Avonlea. Anne peeped out from her frosted gable window with delighted eyes. The firs in the Haunted Wood were all feathery and wonderful; the birches and wild cherry trees were outlined in pearl; the plowed fields were stretches of snowy dimples; and there was a crisp tang in the air that was glorious. Anne ran downstairs singing until her voice reechoed through Green Gables. "Merry Christmas, Marilla! Merry Christmas, Matthew! Isn't it a lovely Christmas? I'm so glad it's white. Any other kind of Christmas doesn't seem real, does it? I don't like green Christmases. They're not green--they're just nasty faded browns and grays. What makes people call them green? Why--why--Matthew, is that for me? Oh, Matthew!" Matthew had sheepishly unfolded the dress from its paper swathings and held it out with a deprecatory glance at Marilla, who feigned to be contemptuously filling the teapot, but nevertheless watched the scene out of the corner of her eye with a rather interested air. Anne took the dress and looked at it in reverent silence. Oh, how pretty it was--a lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk; a skirt with dainty frills and shirrings; a waist elaborately pintucked in the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck. But the sleeves--they were the crowning glory! Long elbow cuffs, and above them two beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown-silk ribbon. "That's a Christmas present for you, Anne," said Matthew shyly. "Why--why--Anne, don't you like it? Well now--well now." For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears. "Like it! Oh, Matthew!" Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. "Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream." "Well, well, let us have breakfast," interrupted Marilla. "I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the dress; but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There's a hair ribbon Mrs. Lynde left for you. It's brown, to match the dress. Come now, sit in." "I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast," said Anne rapturously. "Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment. I'd rather feast my eyes on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It's at times like this I'm sorry I'm not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this." When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. "Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with _such_ sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer." "I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?" All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. "Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. "Everything went off very well," said Diana practically. "I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers." "Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrill to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was encored. I just said to myself," ?It is my dear bosom friend who is so honored.'" "Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid." "Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan called out my name I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practiced those recitations so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right?" "Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely," assured Diana. "I saw old Mrs. Sloane wiping away tears when I sat down. It was splendid to think I had touched somebody's heart. It's so romantic to take part in a concert, isn't it? Oh, it's been a very memorable occasion indeed." "Wasn't the boys' dialogue fine?" said Diana. "Gilbert Blythe was just splendid. Anne, I do think it's awful mean the way you treat Gil. Wait till I tell you. When you ran off the platform after the fairy dialogue one of your roses fell out of your hair. I saw Gil pick it up and put it in his breast pocket. There now. You're so romantic that I'm sure you ought to be pleased at that." "It's nothing to me what that person does," said Anne loftily. "I simply never waste a thought on him, Diana." That night Marilla and Matthew, who had been out to a concert for the first time in twenty years, sat for a while by the kitchen fire after Anne had gone to bed. "Well now, I guess our Anne did as well as any of them," said Matthew proudly. "Yes, she did," admitted Marilla. "She's a bright child, Matthew. And she looked real nice too. I've been kind of opposed to this concert scheme, but I suppose there's no real harm in it after all. Anyhow, I was proud of Anne tonight, although I'm not going to tell her so." "Well now, I was proud of her and I did tell her so ?fore she went upstairs," said Matthew. "We must see what we can do for her some of these days, Marilla. I guess she'll need something more than Avonlea school by and by." "There's time enough to think of that," said Marilla. "She's only thirteen in March. Though tonight it struck me she was growing quite a big girl. Mrs. Lynde made that dress a mite too long, and it makes Anne look so tall. She's quick to learn and I guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to Queen's after a spell. But nothing need be said about that for a year or two yet." "Well now, it'll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on," said Matthew. "Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over." CHAPTER XXVI. The Story Club Is Formed \|JUNIOR Avonlea found it	was--a lovely soft brown gloria with all the gloss of silk; a skirt with dainty frills and shirrings; a waist elaborately pintucked in the most fashionable way, with a little ruffle of filmy lace at the neck. But the sleeves--they were the crowning glory! Long elbow cuffs, and above them two beautiful puffs divided by rows of shirring and bows of brown-silk ribbon. "That's a Christmas present for you, Anne," said Matthew shyly. "Why--why--Anne, don't you like it? Well now--well now." For Anne's eyes had suddenly filled with tears. "Like it! Oh, Matthew!" Anne laid the dress over a chair and clasped her hands. "Matthew, it's perfectly exquisite. Oh, I can never thank you enough. Look at those sleeves! Oh, it seems to me this must be a happy dream." "Well, well, let us have breakfast," interrupted Marilla. "I must say, Anne, I don't think you needed the dress; but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There's a hair ribbon Mrs. Lynde left for you. It's brown, to match the dress. Come now, sit in." "I don't see how I'm going to eat breakfast," said Anne rapturously. "Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment. I'd rather feast my eyes on that dress. I'm so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable. It did seem to me that I'd never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them. I'd never have felt quite satisfied, you see. It was lovely of Mrs. Lynde to give me the ribbon too. I feel that I ought to be a very good girl indeed. It's at times like this I'm sorry I'm not a model little girl; and I always resolve that I will be in future. But somehow it's hard to carry out your resolutions when irresistible temptations come. Still, I really will make an extra effort after this." When the commonplace breakfast was over Diana appeared, crossing the white log bridge in the hollow, a gay little figure in her crimson ulster. Anne flew down the slope to meet her. "Merry Christmas, Diana! And oh, it's a wonderful Christmas. I've something splendid to show you. Matthew has given me the loveliest dress, with _such_ sleeves. I couldn't even imagine any nicer." "I've got something more for you," said Diana breathlessly. "Here--this box. Aunt Josephine sent us out a big box with ever so many things in it--and this is for you. I'd have brought it over last night, but it didn't come until after dark, and I never feel very comfortable coming through the Haunted Wood in the dark now." Anne opened the box and peeped in. First a card with "For the Anne-girl and Merry Christmas," written on it; and then, a pair of the daintiest little kid slippers, with beaded toes and satin bows and glistening buckles. "Oh,"<\|quote\|>said Anne,</\|quote\|>"Diana, this is too much. I must be dreaming." "I call it providential," said Diana. "You won't have to borrow Ruby's slippers now, and that's a blessing, for they're two sizes too big for you, and it would be awful to hear a fairy shuffling. Josie Pye would be delighted. Mind you, Rob Wright went home with Gertie Pye from the practice night before last. Did you ever hear anything equal to that?" All the Avonlea scholars were in a fever of excitement that day, for the hall had to be decorated and a last grand rehearsal held. The concert came off in the evening and was a pronounced success. The little hall was crowded; all the performers did excellently well, but Anne was the bright particular star of the occasion, as even envy, in the shape of Josie Pye, dared not deny. "Oh, hasn't it been a brilliant evening?" sighed Anne, when it was all over and she and Diana were walking home together under a dark, starry sky. "Everything went off very well," said Diana practically. "I guess we must have made as much as ten dollars. Mind you, Mr. Allan is going to send an account of it to the Charlottetown papers." "Oh, Diana, will we really see our names in print? It makes me thrill to think of it. Your solo was perfectly elegant, Diana. I felt prouder than you did when it was encored. I just said to myself," ?It is my dear bosom friend who is so honored.'" "Well, your recitations just brought down the house, Anne. That sad one was simply splendid." "Oh, I was so nervous, Diana. When Mr. Allan called out my name I really cannot tell how I ever got up on that platform. I felt as if a million eyes were looking at me and through me, and for one dreadful moment I was sure I couldn't begin at all. Then I thought of my lovely puffed sleeves and took courage. I knew that I must live up to those sleeves, Diana. So I started in, and my voice seemed to be coming from ever so far away. I just felt like a parrot. It's providential that I practiced those recitations so often up in the garret, or I'd never have been able to get through. Did I groan all right?" "Yes, indeed, you groaned lovely," assured Diana. "I saw old Mrs. Sloane	Anne Of Green Gables
"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."	Alexis Ivanovitch	away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he	do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a	caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in	Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely	see you," he said; "and you appear to be out on a similar errand. So you have parted with your employers?" "How do you know that?" I asked in astonishment. "Is _every one_ aware of the fact?" "By no means. Not every one would consider such a fact to be of moment. Indeed, I have never heard any one speak of it." "Then how come you to know it?" "Because I have had occasion to do so. Whither are you bound? I like you, and was therefore coming to pay you a visit." "What a splendid fellow you are, Mr. Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely enough, he had no sooner seated himself and bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some reason or another, I felt moved to tell him everything to speak to him of my love in all its phases. For an hour and a half did I discourse on the subject, and found it a pleasure to do so, even though this was the first occasion on which I had referred to the matter. Indeed, when, at certain moments, I perceived that my more ardent passages confused him, I purposely increased my ardour of narration. Yet one thing I regret: and	threats which I had uttered at random last night had made everybody so alarmed? Secondly, what was the influence which this Frenchman appeared to exercise over Polina? He had but to give the word, and at once she did as he desired at once she wrote me a note to beg of me to forbear! Of course, the relations between the pair had, from the first, been a riddle to me they had been so ever since I had first made their acquaintance. But of late I had remarked in her a strong aversion for, even a contempt for him, while, for his part, he had scarcely even looked at her, but had behaved towards her always in the most churlish fashion. Yes, I had noted that. Also, Polina herself had mentioned to me her dislike for him, and delivered herself of some remarkable confessions on the subject. Hence, he must have got her into his power somehow somehow he must be holding her as in a vice. VIII All at once, on the Promenade, as it was called that is to say, in the Chestnut Avenue I came face to face with my Englishman. "I was just coming to see you," he said; "and you appear to be out on a similar errand. So you have parted with your employers?" "How do you know that?" I asked in astonishment. "Is _every one_ aware of the fact?" "By no means. Not every one would consider such a fact to be of moment. Indeed, I have never heard any one speak of it." "Then how come you to know it?" "Because I have had occasion to do so. Whither are you bound? I like you, and was therefore coming to pay you a visit." "What a splendid fellow you are, Mr. Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely enough, he had no sooner seated himself and bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some reason or another, I felt moved to tell him everything to speak to him of my love in all its phases. For an hour and a half did I discourse on the subject, and found it a pleasure to do so, even though this was the first occasion on which I had referred to the matter. Indeed, when, at certain moments, I perceived that my more ardent passages confused him, I purposely increased my ardour of narration. Yet one thing I regret: and that is that I made references to the Frenchman which were a little over-personal. Mr. Astley sat without moving as he listened to me. Not a word nor a sound of any kind did he utter as he stared into my eyes. Suddenly, however, on my mentioning the Frenchman, he interrupted me, and inquired sternly whether I did right to speak of an extraneous matter (he had always been a strange man in his mode of propounding questions). "No, I fear not," I replied. "And concerning this Marquis and Mlle. Polina you know nothing beyond surmise?" Again I was surprised that such a categorical question should come from such a reserved individual. "No, I know nothing _for certain_ about them" was my reply. "No nothing." "Then you have done very wrong to speak of them to me, or even to imagine things about them." "Quite so, quite so," I interrupted in some astonishment. "I admit that. Yet that is not the question." Whereupon I related to him in detail the incident of two days ago. I spoke of Polina s outburst, of my encounter with the Baron, of my dismissal, of the General s extraordinary pusillanimity, and of the call	beginning to play the fool! Certain circumstances, however, I may explain to you later. Pray cease from your folly, and put a check upon yourself. For folly it all is. I have need of you, and, moreover, you have promised to obey me. Remember the Shlangenberg. I ask you to be obedient. If necessary, I shall even _bid_ you be obedient. Your own" POLINA. "_P.S._ If so be that you still bear a grudge against me for what happened last night, pray forgive me." Everything, to my eyes, seemed to change as I read these words. My lips grew pale, and I began to tremble. Meanwhile, the cursed Frenchman was eyeing me discreetly and askance, as though he wished to avoid witnessing my confusion. It would have been better if he had laughed outright. "Very well," I said, "you can tell Mlle. not to disturb herself. But," I added sharply, "I would also ask you why you have been so long in handing me this note? Instead of chattering about trifles, you ought to have delivered me the missive at once if you have really come commissioned as you say." "Well, pardon some natural haste on my part, for the situation is so strange. I wished first to gain some personal knowledge of your intentions; and, moreover, I did not know the contents of the note, and thought that it could be given you at any time." "I understand," I replied. "So you were ordered to hand me the note only in the last resort, and if you could not otherwise appease me? Is it not so? Speak out, Monsieur de Griers." "Perhaps," said he, assuming a look of great forbearance, but gazing at me in a meaning way. I reached for my hat; whereupon he nodded, and went out. Yet on his lips I fancied that I could see a mocking smile. How could it have been otherwise? "You and I are to have a reckoning later, Master Frenchman," I muttered as I descended the stairs. "Yes, we will measure our strength together." Yet my thoughts were all in confusion, for again something seemed to have struck me dizzy. Presently the air revived me a little, and, a couple of minutes later, my brain had sufficiently cleared to enable two ideas in particular to stand out in it. Firstly, I asked myself, which of the absurd, boyish, and extravagant threats which I had uttered at random last night had made everybody so alarmed? Secondly, what was the influence which this Frenchman appeared to exercise over Polina? He had but to give the word, and at once she did as he desired at once she wrote me a note to beg of me to forbear! Of course, the relations between the pair had, from the first, been a riddle to me they had been so ever since I had first made their acquaintance. But of late I had remarked in her a strong aversion for, even a contempt for him, while, for his part, he had scarcely even looked at her, but had behaved towards her always in the most churlish fashion. Yes, I had noted that. Also, Polina herself had mentioned to me her dislike for him, and delivered herself of some remarkable confessions on the subject. Hence, he must have got her into his power somehow somehow he must be holding her as in a vice. VIII All at once, on the Promenade, as it was called that is to say, in the Chestnut Avenue I came face to face with my Englishman. "I was just coming to see you," he said; "and you appear to be out on a similar errand. So you have parted with your employers?" "How do you know that?" I asked in astonishment. "Is _every one_ aware of the fact?" "By no means. Not every one would consider such a fact to be of moment. Indeed, I have never heard any one speak of it." "Then how come you to know it?" "Because I have had occasion to do so. Whither are you bound? I like you, and was therefore coming to pay you a visit." "What a splendid fellow you are, Mr. Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely enough, he had no sooner seated himself and bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some reason or another, I felt moved to tell him everything to speak to him of my love in all its phases. For an hour and a half did I discourse on the subject, and found it a pleasure to do so, even though this was the first occasion on which I had referred to the matter. Indeed, when, at certain moments, I perceived that my more ardent passages confused him, I purposely increased my ardour of narration. Yet one thing I regret: and that is that I made references to the Frenchman which were a little over-personal. Mr. Astley sat without moving as he listened to me. Not a word nor a sound of any kind did he utter as he stared into my eyes. Suddenly, however, on my mentioning the Frenchman, he interrupted me, and inquired sternly whether I did right to speak of an extraneous matter (he had always been a strange man in his mode of propounding questions). "No, I fear not," I replied. "And concerning this Marquis and Mlle. Polina you know nothing beyond surmise?" Again I was surprised that such a categorical question should come from such a reserved individual. "No, I know nothing _for certain_ about them" was my reply. "No nothing." "Then you have done very wrong to speak of them to me, or even to imagine things about them." "Quite so, quite so," I interrupted in some astonishment. "I admit that. Yet that is not the question." Whereupon I related to him in detail the incident of two days ago. I spoke of Polina s outburst, of my encounter with the Baron, of my dismissal, of the General s extraordinary pusillanimity, and of the call which De Griers had that morning paid me. In conclusion, I showed Astley the note which I had lately received. "What do you make of it?" I asked. "When I met you I was just coming to ask you your opinion. For myself, I could have killed this Frenchman, and am not sure that I shall not do so even yet." "I feel the same about it," said Mr. Astley. "As for Mlle. Polina well, you yourself know that, if necessity drives, one enters into relation with people whom one simply detests. Even between this couple there may be something which, though unknown to you, depends upon extraneous circumstances. For, my own part, I think that you may reassure yourself or at all events partially. And as for Mlle. Polina s proceedings of two days ago, they were, of course, strange; not because she can have meant to get rid of you, or to earn for you a thrashing from the Baron s cudgel (which for some curious reason, he did not use, although he had it ready in his hands), but because such proceedings on the part of such well, of such a refined lady as Mlle. Polina are, to say the least of it, unbecoming. But she cannot have guessed that you would carry out her absurd wish to the letter?" "Do you know what?" suddenly I cried as I fixed Mr. Astley with my gaze. "I believe that you have already heard the story from some one very possibly from Mlle. Polina herself?" In return he gave me an astonished stare. "Your eyes look very fiery," he said with a return of his former calm, "and in them I can read suspicion. Now, you have no right whatever to be suspicious. It is not a right which I can for a moment recognise, and I absolutely refuse to answer your questions." "Enough! You need say no more," I cried with a strange emotion at my heart, yet not altogether understanding what had aroused that emotion in my breast. Indeed, when, where, and how could Polina have chosen Astley to be one of her confidants? Of late I had come rather to overlook him in this connection, even though Polina had always been a riddle to me so much so that now, when I had just permitted myself to tell my friend of my infatuation in all its	the note only in the last resort, and if you could not otherwise appease me? Is it not so? Speak out, Monsieur de Griers." "Perhaps," said he, assuming a look of great forbearance, but gazing at me in a meaning way. I reached for my hat; whereupon he nodded, and went out. Yet on his lips I fancied that I could see a mocking smile. How could it have been otherwise? "You and I are to have a reckoning later, Master Frenchman," I muttered as I descended the stairs. "Yes, we will measure our strength together." Yet my thoughts were all in confusion, for again something seemed to have struck me dizzy. Presently the air revived me a little, and, a couple of minutes later, my brain had sufficiently cleared to enable two ideas in particular to stand out in it. Firstly, I asked myself, which of the absurd, boyish, and extravagant threats which I had uttered at random last night had made everybody so alarmed? Secondly, what was the influence which this Frenchman appeared to exercise over Polina? He had but to give the word, and at once she did as he desired at once she wrote me a note to beg of me to forbear! Of course, the relations between the pair had, from the first, been a riddle to me they had been so ever since I had first made their acquaintance. But of late I had remarked in her a strong aversion for, even a contempt for him, while, for his part, he had scarcely even looked at her, but had behaved towards her always in the most churlish fashion. Yes, I had noted that. Also, Polina herself had mentioned to me her dislike for him, and delivered herself of some remarkable confessions on the subject. Hence, he must have got her into his power somehow somehow he must be holding her as in a vice. VIII All at once, on the Promenade, as it was called that is to say, in the Chestnut Avenue I came face to face with my Englishman. "I was just coming to see you," he said; "and you appear to be out on a similar errand. So you have parted with your employers?" "How do you know that?" I asked in astonishment. "Is _every one_ aware of the fact?" "By no means. Not every one would consider such a fact to be of moment. Indeed, I have never heard any one speak of it." "Then how come you to know it?" "Because I have had occasion to do so. Whither are you bound? I like you, and was therefore coming to pay you a visit." "What a splendid fellow you are, Mr. Astley!" I cried, though still wondering how he had come by his knowledge. "And since I have not yet had my coffee, and you have, in all probability, scarcely tasted yours, let us adjourn to the Casino Caf , where we can sit and smoke and have a talk." The caf in question was only a hundred paces away; so, when coffee had been brought, we seated ourselves, and I lit a cigarette. Astley was no smoker, but, taking a seat by my side, he prepared himself to listen. "I do not intend to go away," was my first remark.<\|quote\|>"I intend, on the contrary, to remain here."</\|quote\|>"That I never doubted," he answered good-humouredly. It is a curious fact that, on my way to see him, I had never even thought of telling him of my love for Polina. In fact, I had purposely meant to avoid any mention of the subject. Nor, during our stay in the place, had I ever made aught but the scantiest reference to it. You see, not only was Astley a man of great reserve, but also from the first I had perceived that Polina had made a great impression upon him, although he never spoke of her. But now, strangely enough, he had no sooner seated himself and bent his steely gaze upon me, than, for some reason or another, I felt moved to tell him everything to speak to him of my love in all its phases. For an hour and a half did I discourse on the subject, and found it a pleasure to do so, even though this was the first occasion on which I had referred to the matter. Indeed, when, at certain moments, I perceived that my more ardent passages confused him, I purposely increased my ardour of narration. Yet one thing I regret: and that is that I made references to the Frenchman which were a little over-personal. Mr. Astley sat without moving as he listened to me. Not a word nor a sound of any kind did he utter as he stared into my eyes. Suddenly, however, on my mentioning the Frenchman, he interrupted me, and inquired sternly whether I did right to speak of an extraneous matter (he had always been a strange man in	The Gambler
"Come, my good fellow!"	Mr. Bumble	fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man	very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want	was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces;	keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again. "Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. "Fill up!" It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely	down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper. At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again. "Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. "Fill up!" It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways. "Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?" "Pretty well, thank you, sir" replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir." "Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all	been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street. "Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!" whispered Sowerberry in the old woman's ear; "we are rather late; and it won't do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men, as quick as you like!" Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side. There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper. At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again. "Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. "Fill up!" It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways. "Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?" "Pretty well, thank you, sir" replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir." "Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard. CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses. For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded	came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They starved her!" He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips. The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker. "She was my daughter," said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. "Lord, Lord! Well, it _is_ strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord! to think of it; it's as good as a play as good as a play!" As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away. "Stop, stop!" said the old woman in a loud whisper. "Will she be buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night? I laid her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind; send some bread only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?" she said eagerly: catching at the undertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door. "Yes, yes," said the undertaker, "of course. Anything you like!" He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away. The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street. "Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!" whispered Sowerberry in the old woman's ear; "we are rather late; and it won't do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men, as quick as you like!" Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side. There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper. At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again. "Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. "Fill up!" It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways. "Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?" "Pretty well, thank you, sir" replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir." "Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard. CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses. For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be quite cheerful and contented conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration. That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery. And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings. One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time,	grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away. The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street. "Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!" whispered Sowerberry in the old woman's ear; "we are rather late; and it won't do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men, as quick as you like!" Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side. There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper. At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again. "Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. "Fill up!" It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.<\|quote\|>"Come, my good fellow!"</\|quote\|>said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. "They want to shut up the yard." The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways. "Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?" "Pretty well, thank you, sir" replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. "Not very much, sir." "Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy." Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard. CHAPTER VI. OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In	Oliver Twist
'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'	No speaker	"wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it	She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick	remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like	I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the	the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She summoned physical disgust. "You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them,	Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?" "I--I had to." "Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?" Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She summoned physical disgust. "You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly to Greece, and never see him again, or forget his very name, George will work in your thoughts till you die. It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal." Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her anger passed away soon, her tears remained. "I only wish poets would say this, too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul! Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all the cant with which superstition has wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot say how they came nor whither they go, but we have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot bear it. It is again the darkness creeping in; it is hell." Then he checked	the way to Greece?" Her manner altered. "To Greece?" "So you must stop. You won't talk about this business, I know. I can trust you both." "Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen." "I shouldn't want--" "I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we deserve sorrow." She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman. More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair. "No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage." "Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired." "Not a bit," said Lucy, with trembling lips. "But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was silent. "Greece" "--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--" "Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought." "Not till January, it wasn't," said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse." "Thank you." At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?" "I--I had to." "Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?" Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She summoned physical disgust. "You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly to Greece, and never see him again, or forget his very name, George will work in your thoughts till you die. It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal." Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her anger passed away soon, her tears remained. "I only wish poets would say this, too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul! Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all the cant with which superstition has wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot say how they came nor whither they go, but we have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot bear it. It is again the darkness creeping in; it is hell." Then he checked himself. "What nonsense I have talked--how abstract and remote! And I have made you cry! Dear girl, forgive my prosiness; marry my boy. When I think what life is, and how seldom love is answered by love--Marry him; it is one of the moments for which the world was made." She could not understand him; the words were indeed remote. Yet as he spoke the darkness was withdrawn, veil after veil, and she saw to the bottom of her soul. "Then, Lucy--" "You've frightened me," she moaned. "Cecil--Mr. Beebe--the ticket's bought--everything." She fell sobbing into the chair. "I'm caught in the tangle. I must suffer and grow old away from him. I cannot break the whole of life for his sake. They trusted me." A carriage drew up at the front-door. "Give George my love--once only. Tell him" 'muddle.'" Then she arranged her veil, while the tears poured over her cheeks inside. "Lucy--" "No--they are in the hall--oh, please not, Mr. Emerson--they trust me--" "But why should they, when you have deceived them?" Mr. Beebe opened the door, saying: "Here's my mother." "You're not worthy of their trust." "What's that?" said Mr. Beebe sharply. "I was saying, why should you trust her when she deceived you?" "One minute, mother." He came in and shut the door. "I don't follow you, Mr. Emerson. To whom do you refer? Trust whom?" "I mean she has pretended to you that she did not love George. They have loved one another all along." Mr. Beebe looked at the sobbing girl. He was very quiet, and his white face, with its ruddy whiskers, seemed suddenly inhuman. A long black column, he stood and awaited her reply. "I shall never marry him," quavered Lucy. A look of contempt came over him, and he said, "Why not?" "Mr. Beebe--I have misled you--I have misled myself--" "Oh, rubbish, Miss Honeychurch!" "It is not rubbish!" said the old man hotly. "It's the part of people that you don't understand." Mr. Beebe laid his hand on the old man's shoulder pleasantly. "Lucy! Lucy!" called voices from the carriage. "Mr. Beebe, could you help me?" He looked amazed at the request, and said in a low, stern voice: "I am more grieved than I can possibly express. It is lamentable, lamentable--incredible." "What's wrong with the boy?" fired up the other again. "Nothing, Mr. Emerson, except that he no longer interests me.	hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point? "I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't because George spoke that you are both going?" "No." "I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse." "Thank you." At that moment Mr. Beebe came back from church. His cassock was covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell go round?" "I think so; I'll see." "No--of course, I'll see. How are the Miss Alans?" "Very well, thank you." "Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I--I did." "Don't you think it very plucky of her, Mr. Emerson, to undertake the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go travelling." And he hurried off to the stables. "He is not going," she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stop behind in England." Somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. To George, to Cecil, she would have lied again; but he seemed so near the end of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leaving him? You are leaving the man you love?" "I--I had to." "Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?" Terror came over her, and she lied again. She made the long, convincing speech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems to me" "--dreamily; she was not alarmed--" "that you are in a muddle." She shook her head. "Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and I am fearing that you are in one now." She was silent. "Don't trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' "wrote a friend of mine,"<\|quote\|>'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.'</\|quote\|>"I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along--especially the function of Love." Then he burst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!" And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. "But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love the boy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. You won't marry the other man for his sake." "How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She summoned physical disgust. "You're shocked, but I mean to shock you. It's the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly to Greece, and never see him again, or forget his very name, George will work in your thoughts till you die. It isn't possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal." Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her anger passed away soon, her tears remained. "I only wish poets would say this, too: love is of the body; not the body, but of the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul! Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all the cant with which superstition has wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot say how they came nor whither they go, but we have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot bear	A Room With A View
"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"	Mrs. Thingummy	and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron,	said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch	it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came	she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or	"I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of	when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the	as she spoke, the old creature shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait? "Not long, mistress," replied the second woman, looking up into her face. "We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He'll be here soon enough for us all." "Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!" said the matron sternly. "You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?" "Often," answered the first woman. "But will never be again," added the second one; "that is, she'll never wake again but once and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!" "Long or short," said the matron, snappishly, "she won't find me here when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won't that's more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!" She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them. "Who's that?" she cried, in a hollow voice. "Hush, hush!" said one of the women, stooping over her. "Lie down, lie down!" "I'll never lie down again alive!" said the woman, struggling. "I _will_ tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear." She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners. "Turn them away," said the woman, drowsily; "make haste! make haste!" The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company. Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be "blowed," or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days. "That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter. "Matter, Fagin!" cried Charley. "I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb." "Ay, ay!" said the Jew, with a	crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,<\|quote\|>"that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"</\|quote\|>"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his	Oliver Twist
"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"	Mrs. Rattery	which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose	voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to	want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I	with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone	to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had	John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her... I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle." The two men stood in silence. Tony said, "Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate	also Mr Tendril and his niece; a policeman and Ben and two men who had helped bring up the body were in the servants' hall. "It wasn't the kid's fault," said Ben. "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. "He'd had a lousy day, too, poor little bastard," said Ben. "If it was anyone's fault it was Mr Grant-Menzies making him go in." "It wasn't anyone's fault," they said. * * * * * Tony was alone in the library. The first thing he said, when Jock came in, was, "We've got to tell Brenda." "D'you know where to get her?" "She's probably at that school... But we can't tell her over the telephone... Anyway, Ambrose has tried there and the flat but he can't get through... What on earth are we going to say to her?" Jock was silent. He stood in the fireplace with his hands in the pockets of his breeches, with his back to Tony. Presently Tony said, "You weren't anywhere near, were you?" "No, we'd gone on to another covert." "That niece of Mr Tendril's told me first... then we met them coming up, and Ben told me all that happened... It's awful for the girl." "Miss Ripon?" "Yes, she's just left... she had a nasty fall too, just after. Her horse slipped up in the village... she was in a terrible state, poor child, what with that and... John. She didn't know she'd hurt him until quite a time afterwards... she was in the chemist's shop having a bandage put on her head, when they told her. She cut it falling. She was in a terrible state. I sent her back in the car... it wasn't her fault." "No, it wasn't anybody's fault. It just happened." "That's it," said Tony. "It just happened... how are we going to tell Brenda?" "One of us will have to go up." "Yes... I think I shall have to stay here. I don't know why really, but there will be things to see to. It's an awful thing to ask anyone to do..." "I'll go," said Jock. "There'll be things to see to there... there's got to be an inquest the doctor says. It's purely formal, of course, but it will be ghastly for that Ripon girl. She'll have to give evidence... she was in a terrible state. I hope I was all right to her. They'd just brought John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her... I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle." The two men stood in silence. Tony said, "Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course she may very likely be out. He won't know where to find her, because there's no one else in the flat. She leaves it locked up, empty, when she goes out... and she's out half the day. I know because I sometimes ring up and can't get an answer. He may not find her for hours... It may be as long again as the time since it happened. That would only make it eight o'clock. It's quite likely she won't come in until eight... Think of it, all the time between now and when it happened, before Brenda hears. It's scarcely credible, is it? And then she's got to get down here. There's a train that leaves at nine something. She might get that. I wonder if I ought to have gone up too... I didn't like to leave John." (Mrs Rattery sat intent over her game, moving little groups of cards adroitly backwards and forwards about the table like shuttles across a loom; under her fingers order grew out of chaos; she established sequence and precedence; the symbols before her became coherent, interrelated.) "...Of course she may be at home when he arrives. In that case she can get the evening train she used always to come by, when she went to London for the day, before she got the flat... I'm trying to see it all, as it's going to happen,	of course, but it will be ghastly for that Ripon girl. She'll have to give evidence... she was in a terrible state. I hope I was all right to her. They'd just brought John in and I was rather muddled. She looked awful. I believe her father's bloody to her... I wish Brenda had been here. She's so good with everyone. I get in a muddle." The two men stood in silence. Tony said, "Can you really face going up and seeing Brenda?" "Yes, I'll go," said Jock. Presently Mrs Rattery came in. "Colonel Inch has been here," she said. "I talked to him. He wanted to give you his sympathy." "Is he still here?" "No, I told him you'd probably prefer to be left alone. He thought you'd be glad to hear he stopped the hunt." "Nice of him to come... Were you having a good day?" "No." "I'm sorry. We saw a fox in Bruton Wood last week. John and I... Jock's going up to London to fetch Brenda." "I'll take him in the aeroplane. It'll be quicker." "Yes, that will be quicker." "I'll go and change now. I won't be ten minutes." "I'll change, too," said Jock. When he was alone Tony rang the bell. A young footman answered; he was quite young and had not been long at Hetton. "Will you tell Mr Ambrose that Mrs Rattery is leaving to-day. She is flying up with Mr Grant-Menzies. Her ladyship will probably be coming by the evening train." "Very good, sir." "They had better have some luncheon before they go. I will have it with them... And will you put a call through to Colonel Inch and thank him for coming? Say I will write. And to Mr Ripon's to enquire how Miss Ripon is? And to the vicarage and ask Mr Tendril if I can see him this evening? He's not here still?" "No, sir, he left a few minutes ago." "Tell him I shall have to discuss arrangements with him." "Very good, sir." Mr Last was very matter of fact about everything, the footman reported later. It was perfectly quiet in the library, for the workmen in the morning-room had laid aside their tools for the day. Mrs Rattery was ready first. "They're just getting luncheon." "We shan't want any," she said. "You forget we were going hunting." "Better have something," said Tony, and then, "It's awful for Jock, having to tell Brenda. I wonder how long it will be before she arrives." There was something in Tony's voice as he said this which made Mrs Rattery ask,<\|quote\|>"What are you going to do while you're waiting?"</\|quote\|>"I don't know. I suppose there will be things to see to." "Look here," said Mrs Rattery, "Jock had better go up by car. I'll stay here until Lady Brenda comes." "It would be awful for you." "No, I'll stay." Tony said, "I suppose it's ridiculous of me, but I wish you would... I mean, won't it be awful for you? I am all in a muddle. It's so hard to believe yet that it really happened." "It happened all right." The footman came to say that Mr Tendril would call after tea that day; that Miss Ripon had gone straight to bed and was asleep. "Mr Grant-Menzies is going up in his car. He may be back to-night," said Tony. "Mrs Rattery is waiting until her ladyship arrives." "Very good, sir. And Colonel Inch wanted to know whether you would care to have the huntsmen blow "Gone to ground" at the funeral." "Say that I'll write to him," and, when the footman had left the room, Tony said, "An atrocious suggestion." "Oh, I don't know. He's very anxious to be helpful." "They don't like him much as Master." Jock left soon after half-past two. Tony and Mrs Rattery had coffee in the library. "I'm afraid this is a very difficult situation," said Tony. "After all we scarcely know each other." "You don't have to think about me." "But it must be awful for you." "And you must stop thinking that." "I'll try... the absurd thing is that I'm not thinking it, just saying it... I keep thinking of other things all the time." "I know. You don't have to say anything." Presently Tony said, "It's going to be so much worse for Brenda. You see she'd got nothing else, much, except John. I've got her, and I love the house... but with Brenda John always came first... naturally... And then you know she's seen so little of John lately. She's been in London such a lot. I'm afraid that's going to hurt her." "You can't ever tell what's going to hurt people." "But, you see, I know Brenda so well." [VI] The library windows were open and the clock, striking the hour, high over head among its crockets and finials, was clearly audible in the quiet room. It was some time since they had spoken. Mrs Rattery sat with her back to Tony; she had spread out her intricate four-pack patience on a card table; he was in front of the fire, in the chair he had taken after lunch. "Only four o'clock?" he said. "I thought you were asleep." "No, just thinking... Jock will be more than half-way there by now, about Aylesbury or Tring." "It's a slow way to travel." "It's less than four hours ago that it happened... it's odd to think that this is the same day; that it's only five hours ago they were all here at the meet having drinks." There was a pause in which Mrs Rattery swept up the cards and began to deal them again. "It was twenty-eight minutes past twelve when I heard. I looked at my watch... It was ten to one when they brought John in... just over three hours ago... It's almost incredible, isn't it, everything becoming absolutely different, suddenly like that?" "It's always that way," said Mrs Rattery. "Brenda will hear in an hour now... if Jock finds her in. Of course	A Handful Of Dust
"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"	The Invisible Man	Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said	smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where	a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known	his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this	himself. "I say!" he said. "But this is nonsense. It s some trick." He stepped forward suddenly, and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers. He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed. "Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop!" The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the	closed the door of the room, came forward to the dressing-table, and put down his burdens. Suddenly, with a start, he perceived a coiled and blood-stained bandage of linen rag hanging in mid-air, between him and the wash-hand stand. He stared at this in amazement. It was an empty bandage, a bandage properly tied but quite empty. He would have advanced to grasp it, but a touch arrested him, and a voice speaking quite close to him. "Kemp!" said the Voice. "Eh?" said Kemp, with his mouth open. "Keep your nerve," said the Voice. "I m an Invisible Man." Kemp made no answer for a space, simply stared at the bandage. "Invisible Man," he said. "I am an Invisible Man," repeated the Voice. The story he had been active to ridicule only that morning rushed through Kemp s brain. He does not appear to have been either very much frightened or very greatly surprised at the moment. Realisation came later. "I thought it was all a lie," he said. The thought uppermost in his mind was the reiterated arguments of the morning. "Have you a bandage on?" he asked. "Yes," said the Invisible Man. "Oh!" said Kemp, and then roused himself. "I say!" he said. "But this is nonsense. It s some trick." He stepped forward suddenly, and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers. He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed. "Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop!" The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly," said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes. "Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of	centre of the circle of light his lampshade threw on his table. It was two o clock before Dr. Kemp had finished his work for the night. He rose, yawned, and went downstairs to bed. He had already removed his coat and vest, when he noticed that he was thirsty. He took a candle and went down to the dining-room in search of a syphon and whiskey. Dr. Kemp s scientific pursuits have made him a very observant man, and as he recrossed the hall, he noticed a dark spot on the linoleum near the mat at the foot of the stairs. He went on upstairs, and then it suddenly occurred to him to ask himself what the spot on the linoleum might be. Apparently some subconscious element was at work. At any rate, he turned with his burden, went back to the hall, put down the syphon and whiskey, and bending down, touched the spot. Without any great surprise he found it had the stickiness and colour of drying blood. He took up his burden again, and returned upstairs, looking about him and trying to account for the blood-spot. On the landing he saw something and stopped astonished. The door-handle of his own room was blood-stained. He looked at his own hand. It was quite clean, and then he remembered that the door of his room had been open when he came down from his study, and that consequently he had not touched the handle at all. He went straight into his room, his face quite calm perhaps a trifle more resolute than usual. His glance, wandering inquisitively, fell on the bed. On the counterpane was a mess of blood, and the sheet had been torn. He had not noticed this before because he had walked straight to the dressing-table. On the further side the bedclothes were depressed as if someone had been recently sitting there. Then he had an odd impression that he had heard a low voice say, "Good Heavens! Kemp!" But Dr. Kemp was no believer in voices. He stood staring at the tumbled sheets. Was that really a voice? He looked about again, but noticed nothing further than the disordered and blood-stained bed. Then he distinctly heard a movement across the room, near the wash-hand stand. All men, however highly educated, retain some superstitious inklings. The feeling that is called "eerie" came upon him. He closed the door of the room, came forward to the dressing-table, and put down his burdens. Suddenly, with a start, he perceived a coiled and blood-stained bandage of linen rag hanging in mid-air, between him and the wash-hand stand. He stared at this in amazement. It was an empty bandage, a bandage properly tied but quite empty. He would have advanced to grasp it, but a touch arrested him, and a voice speaking quite close to him. "Kemp!" said the Voice. "Eh?" said Kemp, with his mouth open. "Keep your nerve," said the Voice. "I m an Invisible Man." Kemp made no answer for a space, simply stared at the bandage. "Invisible Man," he said. "I am an Invisible Man," repeated the Voice. The story he had been active to ridicule only that morning rushed through Kemp s brain. He does not appear to have been either very much frightened or very greatly surprised at the moment. Realisation came later. "I thought it was all a lie," he said. The thought uppermost in his mind was the reiterated arguments of the morning. "Have you a bandage on?" he asked. "Yes," said the Invisible Man. "Oh!" said Kemp, and then roused himself. "I say!" he said. "But this is nonsense. It s some trick." He stepped forward suddenly, and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers. He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed. "Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop!" The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he said, and laughed stupidly. "That s better. Thank Heaven, you re getting sensible!" "Or silly," said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes. "Give me some whiskey. I m near dead." "It didn t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?" The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is this must be hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible." "Nonsense," said the Voice. "It s frantic." "Listen to me." "I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that invisibility" "Never mind what you ve demonstrated! I m starving," said the Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes." "Food?" said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?" Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the Unseen, curtly. "And food." "Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!" He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest. "Never mind knives," said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing. "Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair. "I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!" "I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp. "Trust me," said the Invisible Man. "Of all the strange and wonderful" "Exactly. But it s odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night. You must stand that! It s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn t it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as it coagulates, I see. It s only the living tissue I ve changed, and only for as long as I m alive.... I ve been in the house three hours." "But how s it done?" began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation. "Confound it! The whole business it s unreasonable from beginning to end." "Quite reasonable," said the Invisible Man. "Perfectly reasonable." He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn patch in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the left ribs. "What were the shots?" he asked. "How did the shooting begin?" "There was a real fool of a man a sort of confederate of mine curse him! who tried to steal my money. _Has_ done so." "Is _he_ invisible too?" "No." "Well?" "Can t I have some more to eat before	the Invisible Man. "Oh!" said Kemp, and then roused himself. "I say!" he said. "But this is nonsense. It s some trick." He stepped forward suddenly, and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers. He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed. "Keep steady, Kemp, for God s sake! I want help badly. Stop!" The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it. "Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip tightened. A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth. The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and he struck and tried to kick savagely. "Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you ll madden me in a minute!" "Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. "If you shout, I ll smash your face," said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth.<\|quote\|>"I m an Invisible Man. It s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"</\|quote\|>"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute." He sat up and felt his neck. "I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man a man you have known made invisible." "Griffin?" said Kemp. "Griffin," answered the Voice. "A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry." "I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?" "I _am_ Griffin." Kemp thought. "It s horrible," he said. "But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?" "It s no devilry. It s a process, sane and intelligible enough" "It s horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth ?" "It s horrible enough. But I m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here." Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor	The Invisible Man
"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"	Mr. Clacton	you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang,	t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent	resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For	"My dear Sally, don t apologize," said Mary, laughing. "Men are such pedants they don t know what things matter, and what things don t." "Now, Denham, speak up for our sex," said Mr. Clacton in a jocular manner, indeed, but like most insignificant men he was very quick to resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For if I were to tell you what I know of back-stairs intrigue, and what can be done by the power of the purse, you wouldn t credit me, Mr. Denham, you wouldn t, indeed. Which is why I feel that the only work for my father s daughter for he	displayed themselves by a tossing movement of her head, and, as Ralph took a letter from his pocket, and placed his finger upon a certain sentence, she forestalled him by exclaiming in confusion: "Now, I know what you re going to say, Mr. Denham! But it was the day Kit Markham was here, and she upsets one so with her wonderful vitality, always thinking of something new that we ought to be doing and aren t and I was conscious at the time that my dates were mixed. It had nothing to do with Mary at all, I assure you." "My dear Sally, don t apologize," said Mary, laughing. "Men are such pedants they don t know what things matter, and what things don t." "Now, Denham, speak up for our sex," said Mr. Clacton in a jocular manner, indeed, but like most insignificant men he was very quick to resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For if I were to tell you what I know of back-stairs intrigue, and what can be done by the power of the purse, you wouldn t credit me, Mr. Denham, you wouldn t, indeed. Which is why I feel that the only work for my father s daughter for he was one of the pioneers, Mr. Denham, and on his tombstone I had that verse from the Psalms put, about the sowers and the seed.... And what wouldn t I give that he should be alive now, seeing what we re going to see" but reflecting that the glories of the future depended in part upon the activity of her typewriter, she bobbed her head, and hurried back to the seclusion of her little room, from which immediately issued sounds of enthusiastic, but obviously erratic, composition. Mary made it clear at once, by starting a fresh topic of general interest,	what was otherwise inexplicable. The light kindled in Mr. Clacton s eye. "Ah, indeed. That interests me very much," he said. "I owe a great debt to your grandfather, Miss Hilbery. At one time I could have repeated the greater part of him by heart. But one gets out of the way of reading poetry, unfortunately. You don t remember him, I suppose?" A sharp rap at the door made Katharine s answer inaudible. Mrs. Seal looked up with renewed hope in her eyes, and exclaiming: "The proofs at last!" ran to open the door. "Oh, it s only Mr. Denham!" she cried, without any attempt to conceal her disappointment. Ralph, Katharine supposed, was a frequent visitor, for the only person he thought it necessary to greet was herself, and Mary at once explained the strange fact of her being there by saying: "Katharine has come to see how one runs an office." Ralph felt himself stiffen uncomfortably, as he said: "I hope Mary hasn t persuaded you that she knows how to run an office?" "What, doesn t she?" said Katharine, looking from one to the other. At these remarks Mrs. Seal began to exhibit signs of discomposure, which displayed themselves by a tossing movement of her head, and, as Ralph took a letter from his pocket, and placed his finger upon a certain sentence, she forestalled him by exclaiming in confusion: "Now, I know what you re going to say, Mr. Denham! But it was the day Kit Markham was here, and she upsets one so with her wonderful vitality, always thinking of something new that we ought to be doing and aren t and I was conscious at the time that my dates were mixed. It had nothing to do with Mary at all, I assure you." "My dear Sally, don t apologize," said Mary, laughing. "Men are such pedants they don t know what things matter, and what things don t." "Now, Denham, speak up for our sex," said Mr. Clacton in a jocular manner, indeed, but like most insignificant men he was very quick to resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For if I were to tell you what I know of back-stairs intrigue, and what can be done by the power of the purse, you wouldn t credit me, Mr. Denham, you wouldn t, indeed. Which is why I feel that the only work for my father s daughter for he was one of the pioneers, Mr. Denham, and on his tombstone I had that verse from the Psalms put, about the sowers and the seed.... And what wouldn t I give that he should be alive now, seeing what we re going to see" but reflecting that the glories of the future depended in part upon the activity of her typewriter, she bobbed her head, and hurried back to the seclusion of her little room, from which immediately issued sounds of enthusiastic, but obviously erratic, composition. Mary made it clear at once, by starting a fresh topic of general interest, that though she saw the humor of her colleague, she did not intend to have her laughed at. "The standard of morality seems to me frightfully low," she observed reflectively, pouring out a second cup of tea, "especially among women who aren t well educated. They don t see that small things matter, and that s where the leakage begins, and then we find ourselves in difficulties I very nearly lost my temper yesterday," she went on, looking at Ralph with a little smile, as though he knew what happened when she lost her temper. "It makes me very angry when people tell me lies doesn t it make you angry?" she asked Katharine. "But considering that every one tells lies," Katharine remarked, looking about the room to see where she had put down her umbrella and her parcel, for there was an intimacy in the way in which Mary and Ralph addressed each other which made her wish to leave them. Mary, on the other hand, was anxious, superficially at least, that Katharine should stay and so fortify her in her determination not to be in love with Ralph. Ralph, while lifting his cup from his lips to the	with us." Mr. Clacton cleared his throat and looked at each of the young ladies in turn. He was a good deal struck by the appearance and manner of Miss Hilbery, which seemed to him to place her among those cultivated and luxurious people of whom he used to dream. Mary, on the other hand, was more of his own sort, and a little too much inclined to order him about. He picked up crumbs of dry biscuit and put them into his mouth with incredible rapidity. "You don t belong to our society, then?" said Mrs. Seal. "No, I m afraid I don t," said Katharine, with such ready candor that Mrs. Seal was nonplussed, and stared at her with a puzzled expression, as if she could not classify her among the varieties of human beings known to her. "But surely," she began. "Mrs. Seal is an enthusiast in these matters," said Mr. Clacton, almost apologetically. "We have to remind her sometimes that others have a right to their views even if they differ from our own...." "Punch" "has a very funny picture this week, about a Suffragist and an agricultural laborer. Have you seen this week s" "Punch," "Miss Datchet?" Mary laughed, and said "No." Mr. Clacton then told them the substance of the joke, which, however, depended a good deal for its success upon the expression which the artist had put into the people s faces. Mrs. Seal sat all the time perfectly grave. Directly he had done speaking she burst out: "But surely, if you care about the welfare of your sex at all, you must wish them to have the vote?" "I never said I didn t wish them to have the vote," Katharine protested. "Then why aren t you a member of our society?" Mrs. Seal demanded. Katharine stirred her spoon round and round, stared into the swirl of the tea, and remained silent. Mr. Clacton, meanwhile, framed a question which, after a moment s hesitation, he put to Katharine. "Are you in any way related, I wonder, to the poet Alardyce? His daughter, I believe, married a Mr. Hilbery." "Yes; I m the poet s granddaughter," said Katharine, with a little sigh, after a pause; and for a moment they were all silent. "The poet s granddaughter!" Mrs. Seal repeated, half to herself, with a shake of her head, as if that explained what was otherwise inexplicable. The light kindled in Mr. Clacton s eye. "Ah, indeed. That interests me very much," he said. "I owe a great debt to your grandfather, Miss Hilbery. At one time I could have repeated the greater part of him by heart. But one gets out of the way of reading poetry, unfortunately. You don t remember him, I suppose?" A sharp rap at the door made Katharine s answer inaudible. Mrs. Seal looked up with renewed hope in her eyes, and exclaiming: "The proofs at last!" ran to open the door. "Oh, it s only Mr. Denham!" she cried, without any attempt to conceal her disappointment. Ralph, Katharine supposed, was a frequent visitor, for the only person he thought it necessary to greet was herself, and Mary at once explained the strange fact of her being there by saying: "Katharine has come to see how one runs an office." Ralph felt himself stiffen uncomfortably, as he said: "I hope Mary hasn t persuaded you that she knows how to run an office?" "What, doesn t she?" said Katharine, looking from one to the other. At these remarks Mrs. Seal began to exhibit signs of discomposure, which displayed themselves by a tossing movement of her head, and, as Ralph took a letter from his pocket, and placed his finger upon a certain sentence, she forestalled him by exclaiming in confusion: "Now, I know what you re going to say, Mr. Denham! But it was the day Kit Markham was here, and she upsets one so with her wonderful vitality, always thinking of something new that we ought to be doing and aren t and I was conscious at the time that my dates were mixed. It had nothing to do with Mary at all, I assure you." "My dear Sally, don t apologize," said Mary, laughing. "Men are such pedants they don t know what things matter, and what things don t." "Now, Denham, speak up for our sex," said Mr. Clacton in a jocular manner, indeed, but like most insignificant men he was very quick to resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For if I were to tell you what I know of back-stairs intrigue, and what can be done by the power of the purse, you wouldn t credit me, Mr. Denham, you wouldn t, indeed. Which is why I feel that the only work for my father s daughter for he was one of the pioneers, Mr. Denham, and on his tombstone I had that verse from the Psalms put, about the sowers and the seed.... And what wouldn t I give that he should be alive now, seeing what we re going to see" but reflecting that the glories of the future depended in part upon the activity of her typewriter, she bobbed her head, and hurried back to the seclusion of her little room, from which immediately issued sounds of enthusiastic, but obviously erratic, composition. Mary made it clear at once, by starting a fresh topic of general interest, that though she saw the humor of her colleague, she did not intend to have her laughed at. "The standard of morality seems to me frightfully low," she observed reflectively, pouring out a second cup of tea, "especially among women who aren t well educated. They don t see that small things matter, and that s where the leakage begins, and then we find ourselves in difficulties I very nearly lost my temper yesterday," she went on, looking at Ralph with a little smile, as though he knew what happened when she lost her temper. "It makes me very angry when people tell me lies doesn t it make you angry?" she asked Katharine. "But considering that every one tells lies," Katharine remarked, looking about the room to see where she had put down her umbrella and her parcel, for there was an intimacy in the way in which Mary and Ralph addressed each other which made her wish to leave them. Mary, on the other hand, was anxious, superficially at least, that Katharine should stay and so fortify her in her determination not to be in love with Ralph. Ralph, while lifting his cup from his lips to the table, had made up his mind that if Miss Hilbery left, he would go with her. "I don t think that I tell lies, and I don t think that Ralph tells lies, do you, Ralph?" Mary continued. Katharine laughed, with more gayety, as it seemed to Mary, than she could properly account for. What was she laughing at? At them, presumably. Katharine had risen, and was glancing hither and thither, at the presses and the cupboards, and all the machinery of the office, as if she included them all in her rather malicious amusement, which caused Mary to keep her eyes on her straightly and rather fiercely, as if she were a gay-plumed, mischievous bird, who might light on the topmost bough and pick off the ruddiest cherry, without any warning. Two women less like each other could scarcely be imagined, Ralph thought, looking from one to the other. Next moment, he too, rose, and nodding to Mary, as Katharine said good-bye, opened the door for her, and followed her out. Mary sat still and made no attempt to prevent them from going. For a second or two after the door had shut on them her eyes rested on the door with a straightforward fierceness in which, for a moment, a certain degree of bewilderment seemed to enter; but, after a brief hesitation, she put down her cup and proceeded to clear away the tea-things. The impulse which had driven Ralph to take this action was the result of a very swift little piece of reasoning, and thus, perhaps, was not quite so much of an impulse as it seemed. It passed through his mind that if he missed this chance of talking to Katharine, he would have to face an enraged ghost, when he was alone in his room again, demanding an explanation of his cowardly indecision. It was better, on the whole, to risk present discomfiture than to waste an evening bandying excuses and constructing impossible scenes with this uncompromising section of himself. For ever since he had visited the Hilberys he had been much at the mercy of a phantom Katharine, who came to him when he sat alone, and answered him as he would have her answer, and was always beside him to crown those varying triumphs which were transacted almost every night, in imaginary scenes, as he walked through the lamplit streets home from	eyes, and exclaiming: "The proofs at last!" ran to open the door. "Oh, it s only Mr. Denham!" she cried, without any attempt to conceal her disappointment. Ralph, Katharine supposed, was a frequent visitor, for the only person he thought it necessary to greet was herself, and Mary at once explained the strange fact of her being there by saying: "Katharine has come to see how one runs an office." Ralph felt himself stiffen uncomfortably, as he said: "I hope Mary hasn t persuaded you that she knows how to run an office?" "What, doesn t she?" said Katharine, looking from one to the other. At these remarks Mrs. Seal began to exhibit signs of discomposure, which displayed themselves by a tossing movement of her head, and, as Ralph took a letter from his pocket, and placed his finger upon a certain sentence, she forestalled him by exclaiming in confusion: "Now, I know what you re going to say, Mr. Denham! But it was the day Kit Markham was here, and she upsets one so with her wonderful vitality, always thinking of something new that we ought to be doing and aren t and I was conscious at the time that my dates were mixed. It had nothing to do with Mary at all, I assure you." "My dear Sally, don t apologize," said Mary, laughing. "Men are such pedants they don t know what things matter, and what things don t." "Now, Denham, speak up for our sex," said Mr. Clacton in a jocular manner, indeed, but like most insignificant men he was very quick to resent being found fault with by a woman, in argument with whom he was fond of calling himself "a mere man." He wished, however, to enter into a literary conservation with Miss Hilbery, and thus let the matter drop. "Doesn t it seem strange to you, Miss Hilbery," he said,<\|quote\|>"that the French, with all their wealth of illustrious names, have no poet who can compare with your grandfather? Let me see. There s Chenier and Hugo and Alfred de Musset wonderful men, but, at the same time, there s a richness, a freshness about Alardyce"</\|quote\|>Here the telephone bell rang, and he had to absent himself with a smile and a bow which signified that, although literature is delightful, it is not work. Mrs. Seal rose at the same time, but remained hovering over the table, delivering herself of a tirade against party government. "For if I were to tell you what I know of back-stairs intrigue, and what can be done by the power of the purse, you wouldn t credit me, Mr. Denham, you wouldn t, indeed. Which is why I feel that the only work for my father s daughter for he was one of the pioneers, Mr. Denham, and on his tombstone I had that verse from the Psalms put, about the sowers and the seed.... And what wouldn t I give that he should be alive now, seeing what we re going to see" but reflecting that the glories of the future depended in part upon the activity of her typewriter, she bobbed her head, and hurried back to the seclusion of her little room, from which immediately issued sounds of enthusiastic, but obviously erratic, composition. Mary made it clear at once, by starting a fresh topic of general interest, that though she saw the humor of her colleague, she did not intend to have her laughed at. "The standard of morality seems to me frightfully low," she observed reflectively, pouring out a second cup of tea, "especially among women who aren t well educated. They don t see that small things matter, and that s where the leakage begins, and then we find ourselves in difficulties I very nearly lost my temper yesterday," she went on, looking at Ralph with a little smile, as though he knew what happened when she lost her temper. "It makes me very angry when people tell me lies doesn t it make you angry?" she asked Katharine. "But considering that every one tells lies," Katharine remarked, looking about the room to see where she had put down her umbrella and her parcel, for there was an intimacy in the way in which Mary and Ralph addressed each other which made her wish to leave them. Mary, on the other hand, was anxious, superficially at least, that Katharine should stay and so fortify her in her determination not to be in love with Ralph. Ralph, while lifting his cup from his lips	Night And Day
"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."	Emma	you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her	real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am	sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No,"	told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little;	had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every	Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds. The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. CHAPTER III Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma." "True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax." Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question-- "She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart." Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's,	it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her friend; and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connexions by soon beginning her career of laborious duty. Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home, and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence; nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her. These were charming feelings--but not lasting. Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors, than saying to Mr. Knightley, "She certainly is handsome; she is better than handsome!" Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and every thing was relapsing much into its usual state. Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever; more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers; and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself; and Jane's offences rose again. They had music; Emma was obliged to play; and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to shew off in higher style her own very superior performance. She was, besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapt up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved. If any thing could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than any thing. She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr. Dixon's character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness; nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably _was_ something more to conceal than her own preference; Mr. Dixon, perhaps, had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell, for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds. The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr. Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted; but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was. "Was he handsome?"--"She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man." "Was he agreeable?"--"He was generally thought so." "Did he appear a sensible young man; a young man of information?"--"At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. CHAPTER III Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma." "True, sir; and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax." Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question-- "She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from. I am always watching her to admire; and I do pity her from my heart." Mr. Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express; and before he could make any reply, Mr. Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bates's, said-- "It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! a great pity indeed! and I have often wished--but it is so little one can venture to do--small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon--Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg; it is very small and delicate--Hartfield pork is not like any other pork--but still it is pork--and, my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork--I think we had better send the leg--do not you think so, my dear?" "My dear papa, I sent the whole hind-quarter. I knew you would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like." "That's right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg; and then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome." "Emma," said Mr. Knightley presently, "I have a piece of news for you. You like news--and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will interest you." "News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it?--why do you smile so?--where did you hear it?--at Randalls?" He had time only to say, "No, not at Randalls; I have not been near Randalls," when the door was thrown open, and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax walked into the room. Full of thanks, and full of news, Miss Bates knew not which to give quickest. Mr. Knightley soon saw that he had lost his moment, and that not another syllable of communication could rest with him. "Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse--I come quite over-powered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be married." Emma had not had time even to think of Mr. Elton, and she was so completely surprized that she could not	all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr. Churchill. She believed every body found his manners pleasing." Emma could not forgive her. CHAPTER III Emma could not forgive her;--but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr. Knightley, who had been of the party, and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning, being at Hartfield again on business with Mr. Woodhouse, his approbation of the whole; not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement. "A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away;--" "particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence." "I am happy you approved," said Emma, smiling;<\|quote\|>"but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield."</\|quote\|>"No, my dear," said her father instantly; "_that_ I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If any thing, you are too attentive. The muffin last night--if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough." "No," said Mr. Knightley, nearly at the same time; "you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore." An arch look expressed--"I understand you well enough;" but she said only, "Miss Fairfax is reserved." "I always told you she was--a little; but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured." "You think her diffident. I do not see it." "My dear Emma," said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, "you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening." "Oh! no; I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions; and amused to think how little information I obtained." "I am disappointed," was his only answer. "I hope every body had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Woodhouse, in his quiet way. "I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb	Emma
"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."	Lucy	the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the	whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She	them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding	Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed	and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have	humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil." Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?" "I tore the thing up." "Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?" "Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose." "Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with the meat." Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. "So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance. "And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long." It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs. "Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done." "Nonsense!	had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song. She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew not why--wished that the trouble could have come at any other time. "Go and dress, dear; you'll be late." "All right, mother--" "Don't say" 'All right' "and stop. Go" ." She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed to her that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?" "Not that I know of." "Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil." Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?" "I tore the thing up." "Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?" "Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose." "Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with the meat." Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. "So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance. "And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long." It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs. "Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done." "Nonsense! It can." "If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise." "Minnie can sleep with you." "I won't have her." "Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy." "Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes. "It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't want to make difficulties, but it really isn't fair on the maids to fill up the house so." Alas! "The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte." "No, I don't. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven't seen her lately, and don't realize how tiresome she can be, though so good. So please, mother, don't worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come." "Hear, hear!" said Cecil. Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: "This isn't very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are, and however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old." Cecil crumbled his bread. "I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike," put in Freddy. "She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right." "I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return." But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: "I can't help it, mother. I don't like Charlotte. I admit it's horrid of me." "From your own account, you told her as much." "Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried--" The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would	it was about. Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved. "I say, those are topping people." "My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban." "I say, is anything on to-morrow week?" "Not that I know of." "Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis." "Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this muddle." "What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I've ordered new balls." "I meant it's better not. I really mean it." He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran away. "Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too." "How's Charlotte?" "All right." "Lucy!" The unfortunate girl returned. "You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?" "Her WHAT?" "Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?" "I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil." Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect. So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said: "Lucy, what's Emerson like?" "I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. "Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?" "Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here." "He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil. Freddy looked at him doubtfully. "How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs. Honeychurch. "Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did." "Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter." "One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without a lie.<\|quote\|>"Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."</\|quote\|>"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind." "She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. "I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?" "I tore the thing up." "Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?" "Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose." "Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune with the meat." Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. "So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance. "And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long." It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs. "Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy's got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done." "Nonsense! It can." "If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise." "Minnie can sleep with you." "I won't have her." "Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy." "Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes. "It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't want to make difficulties, but it really isn't fair on the maids to fill up the house so." Alas! "The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte."	A Room With A View
said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.	No speaker	man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked	all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank	No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs.	rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange	"It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he	that." "Indeed." "Passionately." He laid his hand upon his own heart. "Then God help her!" He stamped impatiently. "Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be contented? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well." "Her duty!" cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable. "Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her." "To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you--" The words she would like to have said were too violent for her. "To look after the baby, certainly," said he. "The baby--?" She had forgotten it. "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?" "No," said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot and trod lightly on its stomach. Miss Abbott cried, "Oh, take care!" She was unaccustomed to this method of awakening the young. "He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time his own boots will be as large? And that he also--" "But ought you to treat him like that?" He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing, filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can come to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or the desire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exception who comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for ever. Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, could not comprehend it, though such a thing is more within the comprehension of women. And when Gino pointed first to himself and then to his baby and said "father-son," she still took it as a piece of nursery	"I have not come as a friend this time," she answered stiffly. "I am not likely, Signor Carella, to approve of anything you do." "Oh, Signorina!" He laughed, as if he found her piquant and amusing. "Surely you approve of marriage?" "Where there is love," said Miss Abbott, looking at him hard. His face had altered in the last year, but not for the worse, which was baffling. "Where there is love," said he, politely echoing the English view. Then he smiled on her, expecting congratulations. "Do I understand that you are proposing to marry again?" He nodded. "I forbid you, then!" He looked puzzled, but took it for some foreign banter, and laughed. "I forbid you!" repeated Miss Abbott, and all the indignation of her sex and her nationality went thrilling through the words. "But why?" He jumped up, frowning. His voice was squeaky and petulant, like that of a child who is suddenly forbidden a toy. "You have ruined one woman; I forbid you to ruin another. It is not a year since Lilia died. You pretended to me the other day that you loved her. It is a lie. You wanted her money. Has this woman money too?" "Why, yes!" he said irritably. "A little." "And I suppose you will say that you love her." "I shall not say it. It will be untrue. Now my poor wife--" He stopped, seeing that the comparison would involve him in difficulties. And indeed he had often found Lilia as agreeable as any one else. Miss Abbott was furious at this final insult to her dead acquaintance. She was glad that after all she could be so angry with the boy. She glowed and throbbed; her tongue moved nimbly. At the finish, if the real business of the day had been completed, she could have swept majestically from the house. But the baby still remained, asleep on a dirty rug. Gino was thoughtful, and stood scratching his head. He respected Miss Abbott. He wished that she would respect him. "So you do not advise me?" he said dolefully. "But why should it be a failure?" Miss Abbott tried to remember that he was really a child still--a child with the strength and the passions of a disreputable man. "How can it succeed," she said solemnly, "where there is no love?" "But she does love me! I forgot to tell you that." "Indeed." "Passionately." He laid his hand upon his own heart. "Then God help her!" He stamped impatiently. "Whatever I say displeases you, Signorina. God help you, for you are most unfair. You say that I ill-treated my dear wife. It is not so. I have never ill-treated any one. You complain that there is no love in this marriage. I prove that there is, and you become still more angry. What do you want? Do you suppose she will not be contented? Glad enough she is to get me, and she will do her duty well." "Her duty!" cried Miss Abbott, with all the bitterness of which she was capable. "Why, of course. She knows why I am marrying her." "To succeed where Lilia failed! To be your housekeeper, your slave, you--" The words she would like to have said were too violent for her. "To look after the baby, certainly," said he. "The baby--?" She had forgotten it. "It is an English marriage," he said proudly. "I do not care about the money. I am having her for my son. Did you not understand that?" "No," said Miss Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot and trod lightly on its stomach. Miss Abbott cried, "Oh, take care!" She was unaccustomed to this method of awakening the young. "He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time his own boots will be as large? And that he also--" "But ought you to treat him like that?" He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing, filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can come to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or the desire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exception who comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for ever. Miss Abbott, for all her goodness, could not comprehend it, though such a thing is more within the comprehension of women. And when Gino pointed first to himself and then to his baby and said "father-son," she still took it as a piece of nursery prattle, and smiled mechanically. The child, the first fruits, woke up and glared at her. Gino did not greet it, but continued the exposition of his policy. "This woman will do exactly what I tell her. She is fond of children. She is clean; she has a pleasant voice. She is not beautiful; I cannot pretend that to you for a moment. But she is what I require." The baby gave a piercing yell. "Oh, do take care!" begged Miss Abbott. "You are squeezing it." "It is nothing. If he cries silently then you may be frightened. He thinks I am going to wash him, and he is quite right." "Wash him!" she cried. "You? Here?" The homely piece of news seemed to shatter all her plans. She had spent a long half-hour in elaborate approaches, in high moral attacks; she had neither frightened her enemy nor made him angry, nor interfered with the least detail of his domestic life. "I had gone to the Farmacia," he continued, "and was sitting there comfortably, when suddenly I remembered that Perfetta had heated water an hour ago--over there, look, covered with a cushion. I came away at once, for really he must be washed. You must excuse me. I can put it off no longer." "I have wasted your time," she said feebly. He walked sternly to the loggia and drew from it a large earthenware bowl. It was dirty inside; he dusted it with a tablecloth. Then he fetched the hot water, which was in a copper pot. He poured it out. He added cold. He felt in his pocket and brought out a piece of soap. Then he took up the baby, and, holding his cigar between his teeth, began to unwrap it. Miss Abbott turned to go. "But why are you going? Excuse me if I wash him while we talk." "I have nothing more to say," said Miss Abbott. All she could do now was to find Philip, confess her miserable defeat, and bid him go in her stead and prosper better. She cursed her feebleness; she longed to expose it, without apologies or tears. "Oh, but stop a moment!" he cried. "You have not seen him yet." "I have seen as much as I want, thank you." The last wrapping slid off. He held out to her in his two hands a little kicking image of bronze.	Abbott, utterly bewildered. Then, for a moment, she saw light. "It is not necessary, Signor Carella. Since you are tired of the baby--" Ever after she remembered it to her credit that she saw her mistake at once. "I don t mean that," she added quickly. "I know," was his courteous response. "Ah, in a foreign language (and how perfectly you speak Italian) one is certain to make slips." She looked at his face. It was apparently innocent of satire. "You meant that we could not always be together yet, he and I. You are right. What is to be done? I cannot afford a nurse, and Perfetta is too rough. When he was ill I dare not let her touch him. When he has to be washed, which happens now and then, who does it? I. I feed him, or settle what he shall have. I sleep with him and comfort him when he is unhappy in the night. No one talks, no one may sing to him but I. Do not be unfair this time; I like to do these things. But nevertheless (his voice became pathetic) they take up a great deal of time, and are not all suitable for a young man." "Not at all suitable,"<\|quote\|>said Miss Abbott, and closed her eyes wearily. Each moment her difficulties were increasing. She wished that she was not so tired, so open to contradictory impressions. She longed for Harriet s burly obtuseness or for the soulless diplomacy of Mrs. Herriton.</\|quote\|>"A little more wine?" asked Gino kindly. "Oh, no, thank you! But marriage, Signor Carella, is a very serious step. Could you not manage more simply? Your relative, for example--" "Empoli! I would as soon have him in England!" "England, then--" He laughed. "He has a grandmother there, you know--Mrs. Theobald." "He has a grandmother here. No, he is troublesome, but I must have him with me. I will not even have my father and mother too. For they would separate us," he added. "How?" "They would separate our thoughts." She was silent. This cruel, vicious fellow knew of strange refinements. The horrible truth, that wicked people are capable of love, stood naked before her, and her moral being was abashed. It was her duty to rescue the baby, to save it from contagion, and she still meant to do her duty. But the comfortable sense of virtue left her. She was in the presence of something greater than right or wrong. Forgetting that this was an interview, he had strolled back into the room, driven by the instinct she had aroused in him. "Wake up!" he cried to his baby, as if it was some grown-up friend. Then he lifted his foot and trod lightly on its stomach. Miss Abbott cried, "Oh, take care!" She was unaccustomed to this method of awakening the young. "He is not much longer than my boot, is he? Can you believe that in time his own boots will be as large? And that he also--" "But ought you to treat him like that?" He stood with one foot resting on the little body, suddenly musing, filled with the desire that his son should be like him, and should have sons like him, to people the earth. It is the strongest desire that can come to a man--if it comes to him at all--stronger even than love or the desire for personal immortality. All men vaunt it, and declare that it is theirs; but the hearts of most are set elsewhere. It is the exception who comprehends that physical and spiritual life may stream out of him for ever. Miss Abbott, for	Where Angels Fear To Tread
sobbed his sister.	No speaker	gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it	the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a	cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what	in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently,	"Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man	not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband. "Mrs Wimble!" cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman's arm excitedly; "you have brought some news about my son." "No," moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. "Went out tea-time, and never come back all night." "Yes, yes, we know that," said Uncle Josiah sternly; "but how did you know?" "Know, sir? I've been sitting up for him all this dreadful night." "What, for my nephew?" "No, sir, for my Jem." "Lindon--James Wimble!" said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. "Impossible! It can't be true." CHAPTER TEN. GONE! "Speak, woman!" cried Mrs Lavington hoarsely; and she	troubled as her brother grew more severe, but she did not speak, feeling that she might make matters worse. Just then Jessie brought in the ham and eggs, and as she took off the cover, and Mrs Lavington began to pour out tea, the old man said roughly,-- "Go and tell Miss Kitty to come down to breakfast directly." The maid left the room. "You did not send a message to Don, Josiah." "No. I suppose his lordship was very late. No business to have gone out." Uncle Josiah began his breakfast. Mrs Lavington could not taste hers. Then Jessie entered, looking startled. "If you please, sir--" "Well, if you please what?" "Miss Kitty, sir." "Yes?" "She's not in her room." "Eh?" ejaculated the old merchant. "Humph! Come down and gone for a walk, I suppose. Back soon." The breakfast went on, but there was no Kitty, no Don, and Uncle Josiah began to eat his food ferociously. At last he got up and rang the bell sharply, and Jessie responded. "What time did Master Lindon come home?" he said. "Come home, sir?" "Yes; did I not speak plainly? I said what time did Master Lindon come home?" "Please, sir, he didn't come home at all." "What!" roared Uncle Josiah, and Mrs Lavington nearly let her cup fall. "Please, sir, I sat in my chair waiting all the night." "And he has not been back?" "No, sir." "Nonsense! Go and knock at his door. Tell him to come at once." "Excuse me, Josiah," said Mrs Lavington excitedly; "let me go." Uncle Josiah grunted his consent, and Mrs Lavington hurried out into the hall, and then upstairs. "Slipped in while you were half asleep," said the old man to Jessie. "No, sir, indeed. I've been watching carefully all night." "Humph! There's half a crown for you to buy a hat ribbon, Jessie. Well," he continued as his sister entered hastily, "what does he say?" "Josiah!" cried the trembling woman, "what does this mean? Don was out when I went up yesterday evening, and he has not been to his room all night." "What?" "Neither has Kitty been to hers." Uncle Josiah thrust back his chair, and left his half-eaten breakfast. "Look here," he exclaimed in a hoarse voice; "what nonsense is this?" "No nonsense, Josiah," cried Mrs Lavington. "I felt a presentiment." "Felt a stuff and nonsense!" he said angrily. "Kitty not in her room? Kitty not been to bed? Here, Jessie!" "Yes, sir." "You did go to sleep, didn't you?" "Ye-e-e-s, sir!" "I thought as much, and," --here tut-tut-tut-- "that would not explain it. Hullo, what do you want?" This was to the cook, who tapped, opened the door, and then held up her hand as if to command silence. "Please, 'm, would you mind coming here?" she said softly. Mrs Lavington ran to the door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband. "Mrs Wimble!" cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman's arm excitedly; "you have brought some news about my son." "No," moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. "Went out tea-time, and never come back all night." "Yes, yes, we know that," said Uncle Josiah sternly; "but how did you know?" "Know, sir? I've been sitting up for him all this dreadful night." "What, for my nephew?" "No, sir, for my Jem." "Lindon--James Wimble!" said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. "Impossible! It can't be true." CHAPTER TEN. GONE! "Speak, woman!" cried Mrs Lavington hoarsely; and she shook little Sally by the arm. "What do you mean?" "I don't know, ma'am. I'm in such trouble," sobbed Sally. "I've been a very, very wicked girl--I mean woman. I was always finding fault, and scolding him." "Why?" asked Uncle Josiah sternly. "I don't know, sir." "But he is a quiet industrious man, and I'm sure he is a good husband." "Yes, he's the best of husbands," sobbed Sally. "Then why did you scold him?" "Because I was so wicked, I suppose. I couldn't help it, sir." "But you think he has run away?" "Yes, sir; I'm sure of it. He said he would some day if I was so cruel, and that seemed to make me more cruel, and--and--he has gone." "It is impossible!" said Uncle Josiah. "He must have met with some accident." "No, sir, he has run away and left me. He said he would. I saw him go--out of the window, and he took a bundle with him, and--and--what shall I do? What shall I do?" "Took a bundle?" said Uncle Josiah, starting. "Yes, sir, and--and I wish I was dead." "Silence, you foolish little woman! How dare you wish such a thing? Stop; listen to what I say. Did my nephew Lindon come to the yard last night?" "No, sir; but him and my Jem were talking together for ever so long in the office, and I couldn't get Jem away." Uncle Josiah gave vent to a low whistle. "Please ask Master Don what my Jem said." "Do you not understand, my good woman, that my son has not been home all night?" said Mrs Lavington, piteously. "What? Not been home?" cried Sally, sharply. "Then they're gone off together." Uncle Josiah drew a long breath. "That Master Don was always talking to my poor Jem, and he has persuaded him, and they're gone." "It is not true!" cried Kitty in a sharp voice as she stood by the table, quivering with anger. "If Cousin Don has gone away, it is your wicked husband who has persuaded him. Father, dear, don't let them go; pray, pray fetch them back." Uncle Josiah's brow grew more rugged, and there were hard lines about his lips, till his sister laid her hand upon his arm, when he started, and took her hand, looking sadly down in her face. "You hear what Kitty says," whispered Mrs Lavington; "pray--pray fetch them	door, followed the woman across the hall, unaware of the fact that the old merchant was close at her heels. They paused as soon as they were inside the drawing-room, impressed by the scene before them, for there, half sitting, half lying, and fast asleep, with the tears on her cheeks still wet, as if she had wept as she lay there unconscious, was Kitty, for the bricks on the opposite wall had been too indistinct for her to see. "Don't wake her," said Uncle Josiah softly, and he signed to them to go back into the hall, where he turned to Jessie. "Did you see Miss Kitty last night?" "Ye-es, sir." "Where?" "She comed into the kitchen, sir." "After we had gone to bed?" "Yes, sir." "And you said nothing just now?" "No, sir, I didn't like to." "That will do. Be off," said the old man sternly. "Laura. Here!" Mrs Lavington followed her brother back into the dining-room. "The poor child must have been sitting up to watch for Lindon's return." "And he has not returned, Josiah," sobbed Mrs Lavington. "Here, stop! What are you going to do?" "I am going up to his room to see," said the sobbing woman. Uncle Josiah made no opposition, for he read the mother's thought, and followed her upstairs, where a half-open drawer told tales, and in a few moments Mrs Lavington had satisfied herself. "I cannot say exactly," she said piteously; "but he has made up a bundle of his things." "The coward!" cried Uncle Josiah fiercely. "Gone! Gone! My poor boy!" "Hush!" cried the old man sternly. "He has sneaked off like a contemptible cur. No, I will not believe it of him," he added impetuously. "Lindon has too much stuff in him to play such a despicable part. You are wrong, Laura. Come down and finish breakfast. I will not believe it of the boy." "But he has gone, Josiah, he has gone,"<\|quote\|>sobbed his sister.</\|quote\|>"Then if he has, it is the yielding to a sudden impulse, and as soon as he comes to his senses he will return. Lindon will not be such a coward, Laura. Mark my words." "You are saying this to comfort me," said Mrs Lavington sadly. "I am saying what I think," cried her brother. "If I thought he had gone right off, I would say so, but I do not think anything of the kind. He may have thought of doing so last night, but this morning he will repent and come back." He took his sister's hand gently, and led her downstairs, making her resume her place at the table, and taking his own again, as he made a pretence of going on with his breakfast; but before he had eaten his second mouthful there was a dull heavy thump at the front door. "There!" cried the old man; "what did I say? Here he is." Before the front door could be opened, Kitty, who had been awakened by the knock, came in looking scared and strange. "Don," she said; "I have been asleep. Has he come back?" "Yes I think this is he," said the old man gently. "Come here, my pet; don't shrink like that. I'm not angry." "If you please, sir," said Jessie, "here's a woman from the yard." "Mrs Wimble?" "Yes, sir; and can she speak to you a minute?" "Yes, I'll come--no, show her in here. News. An ambassador, Laura," said the old man with a grim smile, as Jessie went out. "There, Kitty, my dear, don't cry. It will be all right soon." At that moment little Mrs Wimble entered, white cheeked, red-eyed, limp and miserable looking, the very opposite of the trim little Sally who lorded it over her patient husband. "Mrs Wimble!" cried Mrs Lavington, catching the little woman's arm excitedly; "you have brought some news about my son." "No," moaned Sally, with a passionate burst of sobs. "Went out tea-time, and never come back all night." "Yes, yes, we know that," said Uncle Josiah sternly; "but how did you know?" "Know, sir? I've been sitting up for him all this dreadful night." "What, for my nephew?" "No, sir, for my Jem." "Lindon--James Wimble!" said Uncle Josiah, as he sank back in his seat. "Impossible! It	Don Lavington
"Oh, that's it, is it?"	Jem Wimble	and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now,	say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I	advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard;	nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a	It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog. "Mas' Don, Mas' Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!" cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in. But even then Don responded	I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog. "Mas' Don, Mas' Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!" cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in. But even then Don responded to Jem's appeal, and ceased paddling, to make three or four steady strokes. "That's it! Brave heart! Well done, Mas' Don. We shall manage it yet. A long, steady stroke--that's it. Don't give up. You can do it; and when you're tired, I'll help you. Well done--well done. Hah!" Jem uttered a hoarse cry, and then his voice rose in a wild appeal for help, not for self, but for his brave young companion. "Boat! Boat!" he cried, as he heard Don, deaf to his entreaties, begin the wild paddling action again; and he passed his arm beneath his neck, to try and support him. But there was no reply to his wild hail. The boats were out of hearing, and the next minute the strangling water was bubbling about his lips, choking him as he breathed it in; and with the name of his wife on his lips, poor Jem caught Don in a firm grip with one hand, as he struck wildly out with the other. Four or five steady strokes, and then his arm seemed to lose its power, and his strokes were feeble. "Mas' Don," he groaned; "I did try hard; but it's all over. I'm	Jem watchfully keeping his eyes upon his companion, who was now deeper in the water. "Jem," said Don, suddenly. "Yes, Mas' Don. Take it coolly, my lad. We're getting close there. Oh, what a lie!" he added to himself, with a chill of misery unnerving him. "Jem." "Ay, ay, Mas' Don." "If you escape--" "If I escape!" whispered Jem, angrily. "Now, what's the use o' your talking like that? Escape, indeed! Why, I feel as if I could live in the water, if I had plenty to eat and drink." "Listen to me," said Don, hoarsely. "If you escape, tell my mother I always loved her, even when I was obstinate. Tell her we didn't run away, and that--that I didn't take that money, Jem. You'll tell her that?" "I won't tell her nor nobody else nothing of the sort," said Jem. "I'm too busy swimming to think o' no messages, and so are you. Steady-- steady. Bit tired, lad?" "Tired, Jem? My arms feel like lead." "Turn over and float a bit, dear lad, and rest yourself." "No," said Don. "If I turn over I shall be too helpless to keep up, and I can't turn back.--Jem, I'm beat out." "You're not!" cried Jem, in so loud and angry a voice, that the occupants of the pursuing boats must have heard them if they had been near. "You've got to keep on swimming steady, as I tells you, and if you says another word to me 'bout being beat, I'll give you such a shove aside o' the head as'll duck you under." Don made no answer, but swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog. "Mas' Don, Mas' Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!" cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in. But even then Don responded to Jem's appeal, and ceased paddling, to make three or four steady strokes. "That's it! Brave heart! Well done, Mas' Don. We shall manage it yet. A long, steady stroke--that's it. Don't give up. You can do it; and when you're tired, I'll help you. Well done--well done. Hah!" Jem uttered a hoarse cry, and then his voice rose in a wild appeal for help, not for self, but for his brave young companion. "Boat! Boat!" he cried, as he heard Don, deaf to his entreaties, begin the wild paddling action again; and he passed his arm beneath his neck, to try and support him. But there was no reply to his wild hail. The boats were out of hearing, and the next minute the strangling water was bubbling about his lips, choking him as he breathed it in; and with the name of his wife on his lips, poor Jem caught Don in a firm grip with one hand, as he struck wildly out with the other. Four or five steady strokes, and then his arm seemed to lose its power, and his strokes were feeble. "Mas' Don," he groaned; "I did try hard; but it's all over. I'm dead beat, too." CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. FRIENDLY ATTENTIONS. A peculiar pale light played and flashed from the surface of the black water which was being churned up by the desperate struggles of the drowning pair. It was as if myriads of tiny stars started into being where all was dark before, and went hurrying here and there, some to the surface, others deep down into the transparent purity of the sea. A minute before Jem Wimble had kept command of himself, and swam as a carefully tutored man keeps himself afloat; that minute passed, all teaching was forgotten in a weak, frantic struggle with the strangling water which closed over their heads. A few moments, during which the phosphorescent tiny creatures played here and there, and then once more the two helpless and nearly exhausted fugitives were beating the surface, which flashed and sent forth lambent rays of light. But it was not there alone that the phosphorescence of the sea was visible. About a hundred yards away there was what seemed to be a double line of pale gold liquid fire changing into bluish green, and between the lines of light something whose blackness was greater than the darkness of the sea or night. There was a dull low splashing, and at every splash the liquid fire seemed to fly. The double line of fire lengthened and sparkled, till it was as so much greenish golden foam reaching more and more toward where the drowning pair were struggling. Then came a low, growling, grinding sound, as if the long lines of light were made by the beating fins of the dark object, which was some habitant of the deep roused from slumbers by the light of the golden foam formed by those who drowned. And it rushed on and on to seize its prey, invisible before, but now plainly seen by the struggles and the resulting phosphorescent light. Long, low, and with its head raised high out of the water, horrent, grotesque and strange, the great sea monster glided along over the smooth sea. Full five-and-twenty fins aside made the water flash as it came on, and there was, as it were, a thin new-moon-like curve of light at its breast, while from its tail the sparkling phosphorescence spread widely as it was left behind. The low grumbling sound came again, but it was not heard by those drowning,	swam on feebly, with the water rising over his lips at every stroke; and as Jem swam by him he could hear the lad's breath come quickly, and with a hoarse, panting sound. "And I can't leave him, even to; save myself," groaned Jem. "Oh, Sally, Sally, my gal, I did love you very true; and if I never see you again, good-bye--good-bye!" It seemed to poor Jem Wimble that his thoughts were so heavy that they sank him lower in the water; but he had a buoyant heart, which is the surest and best of life preservers; and taking a long breath, and setting his teeth, he swam on. "Not so very far now, Mas' Don," he said. "You feel better now, don't you?" "Jem." "Yes, lad." "It's getting darker. I want to keep on, but I can't. Can you shake hands?" "No!" cried Jem, fiercely. "You turn over and float." Don uttered a sigh, and obeyed in a feeble way, while Jem ceased his striking out for shore, and placed one arm under Don's neck. "It's all right, my lad. Don't lose heart," he said. "It's wonderful easy to float; but you're tired. It's your clothes does it. You're a wonderful good swimmer, Mas' Don; but the wonderflest swimmers can't swim for ever in clothes. That's resting you, arn't it? I'm fresh as a lark, I am. So 'll you be dreckly, lad. Keep cool. Just paddle your hands a bit. We're close in shore, only it's so dark. We've done 'em. Boats is right away." "Are they--are they right away, Jem?" "Yes, my lad, thank goodness!" Don groaned. "Don't do that, my lad. You do make me savage when you won't be plucky. Why, you can swim miles yet, and you shall, as soon as you're rested. I say, how savage the capen will be when he finds he can't ketch us!" "Jem, my lad," said Don, quietly; "don't talk to me as if I were a child. It's very good of you, and--kind--but--but I'm done, Jem--I'm done." "You're not!" cried Jem, savagely. "Say that again, and I'll hit you in the mouth. You arn't done, and it's the way with you. You're the obsnittest chap as ever was. You've got to swim ashore as soon as you're rested, and I say you shall." Don made no reply, but he floated with his nostrils clear of the water, and smiled as he gazed straight up in the dark sky. "There. It was time I spoke," continued Jem. "Some chaps loses heart about nothing." "Nothing, Jem?" "Well, next to nothing, my lad. Why, mussy me! What a fuss we are making about a few hundred yards o' smooth water. I've swum twice as far as this. Rested?" Don made no reply. "Ah, you will be soon. It's the clothes, my lad. Now look here, Mas' Don. You take my advice. Never you try a long swim again like this with your clothes on. They makes a wonderful deal of difference." "Jem," said Don, interrupting him. "Ay, ay, my lad." "Are the boats very far away?" "Well, a tidy bit; say half-mile." "Then swim ashore and leave me; save yourself."<\|quote\|>"Oh, that's it, is it?"</\|quote\|>"And tell my mother--" "Now, look here," cried Jem. "I should look well going and telling your mother as I left you in the lurch; and my Sally would spit at me, and serve me right. No, Mas' Don, I've tried it easy with you, and I've tried it hard; and now I says this: if you've made up your mind to go down, why, let's shake hands, and go down together, like mates." "No, no; you must swim ashore." "Without you?" "Jem, I can do no more." "If I leaves you, Mas' Don--Ahoy! Boat!--boat!" Jem meant that for a sturdy hail; but it was half choked, for just at that moment Don made a desperate effort to turn and swim, lost his remaining nerve, and began to beat the water like a dog. "Mas' Don, Mas' Don, one more try, dear lad, one more try!" cried Jem, passionately; but the appeal was vain. He, with all his sturdy manhood, strength hardened by his life of moving heavy weights, was beaten in the almost herculean task, and he knew at heart that Don had struggled bravely to the very last, before he had given in. But even then Don responded to Jem's appeal, and ceased paddling, to make three or four steady strokes. "That's it! Brave heart! Well done, Mas' Don. We shall manage it yet. A long, steady stroke--that's it. Don't give up. You can do it; and when you're tired, I'll help you. Well done--well done. Hah!" Jem uttered a hoarse cry, and then his voice rose in a wild appeal for help, not for self, but for his brave young companion. "Boat! Boat!" he cried, as he heard Don, deaf to his entreaties, begin the wild paddling action again; and he passed his arm beneath his neck, to try and support him. But there was no reply to his wild hail. The boats were out of hearing, and the next minute the strangling water was bubbling about his lips, choking him as he breathed it in; and with the name of his wife on his lips, poor Jem caught Don in a firm grip with one hand, as he struck wildly out with the other. Four	Don Lavington
"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"	Cyril Fielding	swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we	me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's	be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was	his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no	the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare	us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask where the cable came from?" "Aden." "Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in court." "But she died on leaving Bombay," broke in Adela. "She was dead when they called her name this morning. She must have been buried at sea." Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted from his brutality, which had shocked Fielding more than anyone else. He remained silent while the details of Miss Quested's occupation of the College were arranged, merely remarking to Ronny, "It is clearly to be understood, sir, that neither Mr. Fielding nor any of us are responsible for this lady's safety at Government College," to which Ronny agreed. After that, he watched the semi-chivalrous behavings of the three English with quiet amusement; he thought Fielding had been incredibly silly and weak, and he was amazed by the younger people's want of proper pride. When they were driving out to Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accompanied them: "Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what sum Miss Quested ought to pay as compensation?" "Twenty thousand rupees." No more was then said,	without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance. "Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman." "Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don't now." "Well, here's our solution," said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. "Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate." "At last," said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her. "He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble." "Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?" "He wants you, of course." "He may not even know I'm here." "I'll see him first, if you prefer." When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly: "Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate." She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned. "He has some news for you," he said. "You'll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in." "Does he tell me to come out to him?" "Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think," said Hamidullah. She paused, then said, "Perfectly right," and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day. "Thank goodness, that's over," he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again. "It was insulting of him not to come in." "He couldn't very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn't come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly to-day. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother's dead, poor old soul." "Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I'm sorry," said Hamidullah rather indifferently. "She died at sea." "The heat, I suppose." "Presumably." "May is no month to allow an old lady to travel in." "Quite so. Heaslop ought never to have let her go, and he knows it. Shall we be off?" "Let us wait until the happy couple leave the compound clear . . . they really are intolerable dawdling there. Ah well, Fielding, you don't believe in Providence, I remember. I do. This is Heaslop's punishment for abducting our witness in order to stop us establishing our alibi." "You go rather too far there. The poor old lady's evidence could have had no value, shout and shriek Mahmoud Ali as he will. She couldn't see through the Kawa Dol even if she had wanted to. Only Miss Quested could have saved him." "She loved Aziz, he says, also India, and he loved her." "Love is of no value in a witness, as a barrister ought to know. But I see there is about to be an Esmiss Esmoor legend at Chandrapore, my dear Hamidullah, and I will not impede its growth." The other smiled, and looked at his watch. They both regretted the death, but they were middle-aged men, who had invested their emotions elsewhere, and outbursts of grief could not be expected from them over a slight acquaintance. It's only one's own dead who matter. If for a moment the sense of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask where the cable came from?" "Aden." "Ah, you were boasting she had reached Aden, in court." "But she died on leaving Bombay," broke in Adela. "She was dead when they called her name this morning. She must have been buried at sea." Somehow this stopped Hamidullah, and he desisted from his brutality, which had shocked Fielding more than anyone else. He remained silent while the details of Miss Quested's occupation of the College were arranged, merely remarking to Ronny, "It is clearly to be understood, sir, that neither Mr. Fielding nor any of us are responsible for this lady's safety at Government College," to which Ronny agreed. After that, he watched the semi-chivalrous behavings of the three English with quiet amusement; he thought Fielding had been incredibly silly and weak, and he was amazed by the younger people's want of proper pride. When they were driving out to Dilkusha, hours late, he said to Amritrao, who accompanied them: "Mr. Amritrao, have you considered what sum Miss Quested ought to pay as compensation?" "Twenty thousand rupees." No more was then said, but the remark horrified Fielding. He couldn't bear to think of the queer honest girl losing her money and possibly her young man too. She advanced into his consciousness suddenly. And, fatigued by the merciless and enormous day, he lost his usual sane view of human intercourse, and felt that we exist not in ourselves, but in terms of each others' minds a notion for which logic offers no support and which had attacked him only once before, the evening after the catastrophe, when from the verandah of the club he saw the fists and fingers of the Marabar swell until they included the whole night sky. CHAPTER XXVII "Aziz, are you awake?" "No, so let us have a talk; let us dream plans for the future." "I am useless at dreaming." "Good night then, dear fellow." The Victory Banquet was over, and the revellers lay on the roof of plain Mr. Zulfiqar's mansion, asleep, or gazing through mosquito nets at the stars. Exactly above their heads hung the constellation of the Lion, the disc of Regulus so large and bright that it resembled a tunnel, and when this fancy was accepted all the other stars seemed tunnels too. "Are you content with our day's work, Cyril?" the voice on his left continued. "Are you?" "Except that I ate too much." How is stomach, how head?' "I say, Panna Lal and Callendar 'll get the sack." "There'll be a general move at Chandrapore." "And you'll get promotion." "They can't well move me down, whatever their feelings." "In any case we spend our holidays together, and visit Kashmir, possibly Persia, for I shall have plenty of money. Paid to me on account of the injury sustained by my character," he explained with cynical calm. "While with me you shall never spend a single pie. This is what I have always wished, and as the result of my misfortunes it has come." "You have won a great victory . . ." began Fielding. "I know, my dear chap, I know; your voice need not become so solemn and anxious. I know what you are going to say next: Let, oh let Miss Quested off paying, so that the English may say," Here is a native who has actually behaved like a gentleman; if it was not for his black face we would almost allow him to join our club.' "The approval of	of communion in sorrow came to them, it passed. How indeed is it possible for one human being to be sorry for all the sadness that meets him on the face of the earth, for the pain that is endured not only by men, but by animals and plants, and perhaps by the stones? The soul is tired in a moment, and in fear of losing the little she does understand, she retreats to the permanent lines which habit or chance have dictated, and suffers there. Fielding had met the dead woman only two or three times, Hamidullah had seen her in the distance once, and they were far more occupied with the coming gathering at Dilkusha, the "victory" dinner, for which they would be most victoriously late. They agreed not to tell Aziz about Mrs. Moore till the morrow, because he was fond of her, and the bad news might spoil his fun. "Oh, this is unbearable!" muttered Hamidullah. For Miss Quested was back again. "Mr. Fielding, has Ronny told you of this new misfortune?" He bowed. "Ah me!" She sat down, and seemed to stiffen into a monument. "Heaslop is waiting for you, I think." "I do so long to be alone. She was my best friend, far more to me than to him. I can't bear to be with Ronny . . . I can't explain . . . Could you do me the very great kindness of letting me stop after all?" Hamidullah swore violently in the vernacular.<\|quote\|>"I should be pleased, but does Mr. Heaslop wish it?"</\|quote\|>"I didn't ask him, we are too much upset it's so complex, not like what unhappiness is supposed to be. Each of us ought to be alone, and think. Do come and see Ronny again." "I think he should come in this time," said Fielding, feeling that this much was due to his own dignity. "Do ask him to come." She returned with him. He was half miserable, half arrogant indeed, a strange mix-up and broke at once into uneven speech. "I came to bring Miss Quested away, but her visit to the Turtons has ended, and there is no other arrangement so far, mine are bachelor quarters now" Fielding stopped him courteously. "Say no more, Miss Quested stops here. I only wanted to be assured of your approval. Miss Quested, you had better send for your own servant if he can be found, but I will leave orders with mine to do all they can for you, also I'll let the Scouts know. They have guarded the College ever since it was closed, and may as well go on. I really think you'll be as safe here as anywhere. I shall be back Thursday." Meanwhile Hamidullah, determined to spare the enemy no incidental pain, had said to Ronny: "We hear, sir, that your mother has died. May we ask	A Passage To India
he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.	No speaker	a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back	said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite	for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some	and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier! never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable! never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price,"	do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates." "Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her" "; adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him much too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier! never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable! never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal of events if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss	and indifferent as civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have him speak to her. Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits. Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, "So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!" "Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with them." "And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off." "Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates." "Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her" "; adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him much too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier! never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable! never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal of events if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic at that season." He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone quite far enough." She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few moments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the candid result of conviction, "I believe you are right. It was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy." And then turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not advance in any. Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now observed, "Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to	barouche, I protest! There are his own two men pushing it back into its old quarters. He is here, of course. This is quite a surprise, Fanny. I shall be very glad to see him." There was no occasion, there was no time for Fanny to say how very differently she felt; but the idea of having such another to observe her was a great increase of the trepidation with which she performed the very awful ceremony of walking into the drawing-room. In the drawing-room Mr. Crawford certainly was, having been just long enough arrived to be ready for dinner; and the smiles and pleased looks of the three others standing round him, shewed how welcome was his sudden resolution of coming to them for a few days on leaving Bath. A very cordial meeting passed between him and Edmund; and with the exception of Fanny, the pleasure was general; and even to _her_ there might be some advantage in his presence, since every addition to the party must rather forward her favourite indulgence of being suffered to sit silent and unattended to. She was soon aware of this herself; for though she must submit, as her own propriety of mind directed, in spite of her aunt Norris's opinion, to being the principal lady in company, and to all the little distinctions consequent thereon, she found, while they were at table, such a happy flow of conversation prevailing, in which she was not required to take any part there was so much to be said between the brother and sister about Bath, so much between the two young men about hunting, so much of politics between Mr. Crawford and Dr. Grant, and of everything and all together between Mr. Crawford and Mrs. Grant, as to leave her the fairest prospect of having only to listen in quiet, and of passing a very agreeable day. She could not compliment the newly arrived gentleman, however, with any appearance of interest, in a scheme for extending his stay at Mansfield, and sending for his hunters from Norfolk, which, suggested by Dr. Grant, advised by Edmund, and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of his mind, and which he seemed to want to be encouraged even by her to resolve on. Her opinion was sought as to the probable continuance of the open weather, but her answers were as short and indifferent as civility allowed. She could not wish him to stay, and would much rather not have him speak to her. Her two absent cousins, especially Maria, were much in her thoughts on seeing him; but no embarrassing remembrance affected _his_ spirits. Here he was again on the same ground where all had passed before, and apparently as willing to stay and be happy without the Miss Bertrams, as if he had never known Mansfield in any other state. She heard them spoken of by him only in a general way, till they were all re-assembled in the drawing-room, when Edmund, being engaged apart in some matter of business with Dr. Grant, which seemed entirely to engross them, and Mrs. Grant occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, "So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!" "Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with them." "And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off." "Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates." "Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her" "; adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him much too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier! never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable! never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal of events if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic at that season." He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all so entirely when he did arrive, that in my opinion everything had gone quite far enough." She had never spoken so much at once to him in her life before, and never so angrily to any one; and when her speech was over, she trembled and blushed at her own daring. He was surprised; but after a few moments' silent consideration of her, replied in a calmer, graver tone, and as if the candid result of conviction, "I believe you are right. It was more pleasant than prudent. We were getting too noisy." And then turning the conversation, he would have engaged her on some other subject, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he could not advance in any. Miss Crawford, who had been repeatedly eyeing Dr. Grant and Edmund, now observed, "Those gentlemen must have some very interesting point to discuss." "The most interesting in the world," replied her brother "how to make money; how to turn a good income into a better. Dr. Grant is giving Bertram instructions about the living he is to step into so soon. I find he takes orders in a few weeks. They were at it in the dining-parlour. I am glad to hear Bertram will be so well off. He will have a very pretty income to make ducks and drakes with, and earned without much trouble. I apprehend he will not have less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and as of course he will still live at home, it will be all for his _menus_ _plaisirs_; and a sermon at Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum total of sacrifice." His sister tried to laugh off her feelings by saying, "Nothing amuses me more than the easy manner with which everybody settles the abundance of those who have a great deal less than themselves. You would look rather blank, Henry, if your _menus_ _plaisirs_ were to be limited to seven hundred a year." "Perhaps I might; but all _that_ you know is entirely comparative. Birthright and habit must settle the business. Bertram is certainly well off for a cadet of even a baronet's family. By the time he is four or five and twenty he will have seven hundred a year, and nothing to do for it." Miss Crawford _could_ have said that there would be a something to do and to suffer for it, which she could not think lightly of; but she checked herself and let it pass; and tried to look calm and unconcerned when the two gentlemen shortly afterwards joined them. "Bertram," said Henry Crawford, "I shall make a point of coming to Mansfield to hear you preach your first sermon. I shall come on purpose to encourage a young beginner. When is it to be? Miss Price, will not you join me in encouraging your cousin? Will not you engage to attend with your eyes steadily fixed on him the whole time as I shall do not to lose a word; or only looking off just to note down any sentence preeminently beautiful? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a pencil. When will it be? You must preach at Mansfield, you know,	occupied at the tea-table, he began talking of them with more particularity to his other sister. With a significant smile, which made Fanny quite hate him, he said, "So! Rushworth and his fair bride are at Brighton, I understand; happy man!" "Yes, they have been there about a fortnight, Miss Price, have they not? And Julia is with them." "And Mr. Yates, I presume, is not far off." "Mr. Yates! Oh! we hear nothing of Mr. Yates. I do not imagine he figures much in the letters to Mansfield Park; do you, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than to entertain her father with Mr. Yates." "Poor Rushworth and his two-and-forty speeches!" continued Crawford. "Nobody can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now his toil and his despair. Well, I am much mistaken if his lovely Maria will ever want him to make two-and-forty speeches to her" "; adding, with a momentary seriousness, "She is too good for him much too good." And then changing his tone again to one of gentle gallantry, and addressing Fanny, he said, "You were Mr. Rushworth's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your indefatigable patience in trying to make it possible for him to learn his part in trying to give him a brain which nature had denied to mix up an understanding for him out of the superfluity of your own! _He_ might not have sense enough himself to estimate your kindness, but I may venture to say that it had honour from all the rest of the party." Fanny coloured, and said nothing. "It is as a dream, a pleasant dream!"<\|quote\|>he exclaimed, breaking forth again, after a few minutes' musing.</\|quote\|>"I shall always look back on our theatricals with exquisite pleasure. There was such an interest, such an animation, such a spirit diffused. Everybody felt it. We were all alive. There was employment, hope, solicitude, bustle, for every hour of the day. Always some little objection, some little doubt, some little anxiety to be got over. I never was happier." With silent indignation Fanny repeated to herself, "Never happier! never happier than when doing what you must know was not justifiable! never happier than when behaving so dishonourably and unfeelingly! Oh! what a corrupted mind!" "We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued, in a lower tone, to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and not at all aware of her feelings, "we certainly were very unlucky. Another week, only one other week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had the disposal of events if Mansfield Park had had the government of the winds just for a week or two, about the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we would have endangered his safety by any tremendous weather but only by a steady contrary wind, or a calm. I think, Miss Price, we would have indulged ourselves with a week's calm in the Atlantic at that season." He seemed determined to be answered; and Fanny, averting her face, said, with a firmer tone than usual, "As far as _I_ am concerned, sir, I would not have delayed his return for a day. My uncle disapproved it all	Mansfield Park
replied Monks.	No speaker	inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the	that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have	sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy	again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the	reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery	confounded hole." Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs. "We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear," said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; "and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs. There!" With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if if" said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, "it's not likely, mind, but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead" "It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a	and piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way. He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road, glided up to him unperceived. "Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear. "Ah!" said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that" "Yes!" interrupted the stranger. "I have been lingering here these two hours. Where the devil have you been?" "On your business, my dear," replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. "On your business all night." "Oh, of course!" said the stranger, with a sneer. "Well; and what's come of it?" "Nothing good," said the Jew. "Nothing bad, I hope?" said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a startled look on his companion. The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time arrived: remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under cover: for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind blew through him. Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while he got a light. "It's as dark as the grave," said the man, groping forward a few steps. "Make haste!" "Shut the door," whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke, it closed with a loud noise. "That wasn't my doing," said the other man, feeling his way. "The wind blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded hole." Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs. "We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear," said the Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; "and as there are holes in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle on the stairs. There!" With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face. It was not quite dark; the door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then _she_ begins to favour him." "Throttle the girl!" said Monks, impatiently. "Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and, if if" said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other, "it's not likely, mind, but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead" "It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that. Fagin! I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! What's that?" "What!" cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, as he sprung to his feet. "Where?" "Yonder!" replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. "The shadow! I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like a breath!" The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They listened intently: a profound silence reigned throughout the house. "It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his companion. "I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away." The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty. They descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death. "What do you think now?" said the Jew, when they had regained the passage. "Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!" As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference. This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that night: suddenly remembering that it was past one o'clock. And so the amiable couple parted. CHAPTER XXVII. ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author	open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall. They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks by which name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course of their colloquy said, raising his voice a little, "I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at once?" "Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" demanded Monks, sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps for life?" "Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly. "Mine,"<\|quote\|>replied Monks.</\|quote\|>"But not mine," said the Jew, submissively. "He might have become of use to me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my good friend?" "What then?" demanded Monks. "I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he was not like other boys in the same circumstances." "Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long ago." "I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning, or we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all." "_That_ was not my doing," observed Monks. "No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were looking for. Well! I got	Oliver Twist
said the stranger.	No speaker	waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just	this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left	carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down,	was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood. "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky. "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the	towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field. Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood. "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky. "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge, which let in suddenly the light of a white road. As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane. Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of	off it. He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, right itself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun. The man called Gogol, who had hardly spoken through all their weary travels, suddenly threw up his hands like a lost spirit. "He is dead!" he cried. "And now I know he was my friend my friend in the dark!" "Dead!" snorted the Secretary. "You will not find him dead easily. If he has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a colt rolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun." "Clashing his hoofs," said the Professor. "The colts do, and so did Pan." "Pan again!" said Dr. Bull irritably. "You seem to think Pan is everything." "So he is," said the Professor, "in Greek. He means everything." "Don't forget," said the Secretary, looking down, "that he also means Panic." Syme had stood without hearing any of the exclamations. "It fell over there," he said shortly. "Let us follow it!" Then he added with an indescribable gesture "Oh, if he has cheated us all by getting killed! It would be like one of his larks." He strode off towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field. Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood. "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky. "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge, which let in suddenly the light of a white road. As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane. Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of a gentleman, but rather to the officials and ambassadors of a great king. There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of the tattered and miserable band. All the attendants (as if in court-dress) wore swords, and as each man crawled into his carriage they drew them, and saluted with a sudden blaze of steel. "What can it all mean?" asked Bull of Syme as they separated. "Is this another joke of Sunday's?" "I don't know," said Syme as he sank wearily back in the cushions of his carriage; "but if it is, it's one of the jokes you talk about. It's a good-natured one." The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not one had carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure of comfort. They had all become inured to things going roughly; but things suddenly going smoothly swamped them. They could not even feebly imagine what the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that they were carriages, and carriages with cushions. They could not conceive who the old man was who had led them; but it was quite enough that he had certainly led them to the	grey-clad shoulders that I had seen from behind. But when I saw him from behind I was certain he was an animal, and when I saw him in front I knew he was a god." "Pan," said the Professor dreamily, "was a god and an animal." "Then, and again and always," went on Syme like a man talking to himself, "that has been for me the mystery of Sunday, and it is also the mystery of the world. When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest. Bad is so bad, that we cannot but think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain that evil could be explained. But the whole came to a kind of crest yesterday when I raced Sunday for the cab, and was just behind him all the way." "Had you time for thinking then?" asked Ratcliffe. "Time," replied Syme, "for one outrageous thought. I was suddenly possessed with the idea that the blind, blank back of his head really was his face an awful, eyeless face staring at me! And I fancied that the figure running in front of me was really a figure running backwards, and dancing as he ran." "Horrible!" said Dr. Bull, and shuddered. "Horrible is not the word," said Syme. "It was exactly the worst instant of my life. And yet ten minutes afterwards, when he put his head out of the cab and made a grimace like a gargoyle, I knew that he was only like a father playing hide-and-seek with his children." "It is a long game," said the Secretary, and frowned at his broken boots. "Listen to me," cried Syme with extraordinary emphasis. "Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front" "Look!" cried out Bull clamorously, "the balloon is coming down!" There was no need to cry out to Syme, who had never taken his eyes off it. He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, right itself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun. The man called Gogol, who had hardly spoken through all their weary travels, suddenly threw up his hands like a lost spirit. "He is dead!" he cried. "And now I know he was my friend my friend in the dark!" "Dead!" snorted the Secretary. "You will not find him dead easily. If he has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a colt rolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun." "Clashing his hoofs," said the Professor. "The colts do, and so did Pan." "Pan again!" said Dr. Bull irritably. "You seem to think Pan is everything." "So he is," said the Professor, "in Greek. He means everything." "Don't forget," said the Secretary, looking down, "that he also means Panic." Syme had stood without hearing any of the exclamations. "It fell over there," he said shortly. "Let us follow it!" Then he added with an indescribable gesture "Oh, if he has cheated us all by getting killed! It would be like one of his larks." He strode off towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field. Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood. "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky. "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge, which let in suddenly the light of a white road. As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane. Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of a gentleman, but rather to the officials and ambassadors of a great king. There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of the tattered and miserable band. All the attendants (as if in court-dress) wore swords, and as each man crawled into his carriage they drew them, and saluted with a sudden blaze of steel. "What can it all mean?" asked Bull of Syme as they separated. "Is this another joke of Sunday's?" "I don't know," said Syme as he sank wearily back in the cushions of his carriage; "but if it is, it's one of the jokes you talk about. It's a good-natured one." The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not one had carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure of comfort. They had all become inured to things going roughly; but things suddenly going smoothly swamped them. They could not even feebly imagine what the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that they were carriages, and carriages with cushions. They could not conceive who the old man was who had led them; but it was quite enough that he had certainly led them to the carriages. Syme drove through a drifting darkness of trees in utter abandonment. It was typical of him that while he had carried his bearded chin forward fiercely so long as anything could be done, when the whole business was taken out of his hands he fell back on the cushions in a frank collapse. Very gradually and very vaguely he realised into what rich roads the carriage was carrying him. He saw that they passed the stone gates of what might have been a park, that they began gradually to climb a hill which, while wooded on both sides, was somewhat more orderly than a forest. Then there began to grow upon him, as upon a man slowly waking from a healthy sleep, a pleasure in everything. He felt that the hedges were what hedges should be, living walls; that a hedge is like a human army, disciplined, but all the more alive. He saw high elms behind the hedges, and vaguely thought how happy boys would be climbing there. Then his carriage took a turn of the path, and he saw suddenly and quietly, like a long, low, sunset cloud, a long, low house, mellow in the mild light of sunset. All the six friends compared notes afterwards and quarrelled; but they all agreed that in some unaccountable way the place reminded them of their boyhood. It was either this elm-top or that crooked path, it was either this scrap of orchard or that shape of a window; but each man of them declared that he could remember this place before he could remember his mother. When the carriages eventually rolled up to a large, low, cavernous gateway, another man in the same uniform, but wearing a silver star on the grey breast of his coat, came out to meet them. This impressive person said to the bewildered Syme "Refreshments are provided for you in your room." Syme, under the influence of the same mesmeric sleep of amazement, went up the large oaken stairs after the respectful attendant. He entered a splendid suite of apartments that seemed to be designed specially for him. He walked up to a long mirror with the ordinary instinct of his class, to pull his tie straight or to smooth his hair; and there he saw the frightful figure that he was blood running down his face from where the bough had struck him,	he was only like a father playing hide-and-seek with his children." "It is a long game," said the Secretary, and frowned at his broken boots. "Listen to me," cried Syme with extraordinary emphasis. "Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front" "Look!" cried out Bull clamorously, "the balloon is coming down!" There was no need to cry out to Syme, who had never taken his eyes off it. He saw the great luminous globe suddenly stagger in the sky, right itself, and then sink slowly behind the trees like a setting sun. The man called Gogol, who had hardly spoken through all their weary travels, suddenly threw up his hands like a lost spirit. "He is dead!" he cried. "And now I know he was my friend my friend in the dark!" "Dead!" snorted the Secretary. "You will not find him dead easily. If he has been tipped out of the car, we shall find him rolling as a colt rolls in a field, kicking his legs for fun." "Clashing his hoofs," said the Professor. "The colts do, and so did Pan." "Pan again!" said Dr. Bull irritably. "You seem to think Pan is everything." "So he is," said the Professor, "in Greek. He means everything." "Don't forget," said the Secretary, looking down, "that he also means Panic." Syme had stood without hearing any of the exclamations. "It fell over there," he said shortly. "Let us follow it!" Then he added with an indescribable gesture "Oh, if he has cheated us all by getting killed! It would be like one of his larks." He strode off towards the distant trees with a new energy, his rags and ribbons fluttering in the wind. The others followed him in a more footsore and dubious manner. And almost at the same moment all six men realised that they were not alone in the little field. Across the square of turf a tall man was advancing towards them, leaning on a strange long staff like a sceptre. He was clad in a fine but old-fashioned suit with knee-breeches; its colour was that shade between blue, violet and grey which can be seen in certain shadows of the woodland. His hair was whitish grey, and at the first glance, taken along with his knee-breeches, looked as if it was powdered. His advance was very quiet; but for the silver frost upon his head, he might have been one to the shadows of the wood. "Gentlemen," he said, "my master has a carriage waiting for you in the road just by." "Who is your master?" asked Syme, standing quite still. "I was told you knew his name," said the man respectfully. There was a silence, and then the Secretary said "Where is this carriage?" "It has been waiting only a few moments,"<\|quote\|>said the stranger.</\|quote\|>"My master has only just come home." Syme looked left and right upon the patch of green field in which he found himself. The hedges were ordinary hedges, the trees seemed ordinary trees; yet he felt like a man entrapped in fairyland. He looked the mysterious ambassador up and down, but he could discover nothing except that the man's coat was the exact colour of the purple shadows, and that the man's face was the exact colour of the red and brown and golden sky. "Show us the place," Syme said briefly, and without a word the man in the violet coat turned his back and walked towards a gap in the hedge, which let in suddenly the light of a white road. As the six wanderers broke out upon this thoroughfare, they saw the white road blocked by what looked like a long row of carriages, such a row of carriages as might close the approach to some house in Park Lane. Along the side of these carriages stood a rank of splendid servants, all dressed in the grey-blue uniform, and all having a certain quality of stateliness and freedom which would not commonly belong to the servants of a gentleman, but rather to the officials and ambassadors of a great king. There were no less than six carriages waiting, one for each of the tattered and miserable band. All the attendants (as if in court-dress) wore swords, and as each man crawled into his carriage they drew them, and saluted with a sudden blaze of steel. "What can it all mean?" asked Bull of Syme as they separated. "Is this another joke of Sunday's?" "I don't know," said Syme as he sank wearily back in the cushions of his carriage; "but if it is, it's one of the jokes you talk about. It's a good-natured one." The six adventurers had passed through many adventures, but not one had carried them so utterly off their feet as this last adventure of comfort. They had all become inured to things going roughly; but things suddenly going smoothly swamped them. They could not even feebly imagine what the carriages were; it was enough for them to know that they were carriages, and carriages with cushions. They could not conceive who the old man was who had led them;	The Man Who Was Thursday
"In what way?"	Cecil	expecting that she would be."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>Conversation had become agreeable to	either, but I kept on expecting that she would be."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing	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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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	mingle. Then we shall have her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be good or bad." 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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." 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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." 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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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	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?" "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." 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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is	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?" "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." 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."<\|quote\|>"In what way?"</\|quote\|>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	A Room With A View
"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."	Brett Ashley	he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They	wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next	pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest	"I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and	looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. "Nothing until the fifth." "What's this?" There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. "They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in	or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. "Nothing until the fifth." "What's this?" There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. "They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. "I would advise you gentlemen to get some sandwiches. All the places for the first four services were reserved at the office of the company." "You'll go a long way, brother," Bill said to him in English. "I suppose if I'd given you five francs you would have advised us to jump off the train." "_Comment?_" "Go to hell!" said Bill. "Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine. You tell him, Jake." "And send it up to the next car." I described where we were. In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son. "I suppose you're Americans, aren't you?" the man asked. "Having a good trip?" "Wonderful," said Bill. "That's what you want to do. Travel while you're young. Mother and I always wanted to get over, but we had to wait a while." "You could have come over ten years ago, if you'd wanted to," the wife said. "What you always said was:" 'See America first!' "I will say we've seen a good deal, take it one way and another." "Say, there's plenty of Americans on this train," the husband said. "They've got seven cars of	Bill. "You can't blame him such a hell of a lot." CHAPTER 9 The Ledoux-Kid Francis fight was the night of the 20th of June. It was a good fight. The morning after the fight I had a letter from Robert Cohn, written from Hendaye. He was having a very quiet time, he said, bathing, playing some golf and much bridge. Hendaye had a splendid beach, but he was anxious to start on the fishing-trip. When would I be down? If I would buy him a double-tapered line he would pay me when I came down. That same morning I wrote Cohn from the office that Bill and I would leave Paris on the 25th unless I wired him otherwise, and would meet him at Bayonne, where we could get a bus over the mountains to Pamplona. The same evening about seven o'clock I stopped in at the Select to see Michael and Brett. They were not there, and I went over to the Dingo. They were inside sitting at the bar. "Hello, darling." Brett put out her hand. "Hello, Jake," Mike said. "I understand I was tight last night." "Weren't you, though," Brett said. "Disgraceful business." "Look," said Mike, "when do you go down to Spain? Would you mind if we came down with you?" "It would be grand." "You wouldn't mind, really? I've been at Pamplona, you know. Brett's mad to go. You're sure we wouldn't just be a bloody nuisance?" "Don't talk like a fool." "I'm a little tight, you know. I wouldn't ask you like this if I weren't. You're sure you don't mind?" "Oh, shut up, Michael," Brett said. "How can the man say he'd mind now? I'll ask him later." "But you don't mind, do you?" "Don't ask that again unless you want to make me sore. Bill and I go down on the morning of the 25th." "By the way, where is Bill?" Brett asked. "He's out at Chantilly dining with some people." "He's a good chap." "Splendid chap," said Mike. "He is, you know." "You don't remember him," Brett said. "I do. Remember him perfectly. Look, Jake, we'll come down the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. "Nothing until the fifth." "What's this?" There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. "They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. "I would advise you gentlemen to get some sandwiches. All the places for the first four services were reserved at the office of the company." "You'll go a long way, brother," Bill said to him in English. "I suppose if I'd given you five francs you would have advised us to jump off the train." "_Comment?_" "Go to hell!" said Bill. "Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine. You tell him, Jake." "And send it up to the next car." I described where we were. In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son. "I suppose you're Americans, aren't you?" the man asked. "Having a good trip?" "Wonderful," said Bill. "That's what you want to do. Travel while you're young. Mother and I always wanted to get over, but we had to wait a while." "You could have come over ten years ago, if you'd wanted to," the wife said. "What you always said was:" 'See America first!' "I will say we've seen a good deal, take it one way and another." "Say, there's plenty of Americans on this train," the husband said. "They've got seven cars of them from Dayton, Ohio. They've been on a pilgrimage to Rome, and now they're going down to Biarritz and Lourdes." "So, that's what they are. Pilgrims. Goddam Puritans," Bill said. "What part of the States you boys from?" "Kansas City," I said. "He's from Chicago." "You both going to Biarritz?" "No. We're going fishing in Spain." "Well, I never cared for it, myself. There's plenty that do out where I come from, though. We got some of the best fishing in the State of Montana. I've been out with the boys, but I never cared for it any." "Mighty little fishing you did on them trips," his wife said. He winked at us. "You know how the ladies are. If there's a jug goes along, or a case of beer, they think it's hell and damnation." "That's the way men are," his wife said to us. She smoothed her comfortable lap. "I voted against prohibition to please him, and because I like a little beer in the house, and then he talks that way. It's a wonder they ever find any one to marry them." "Say," said Bill, "do you know that gang of Pilgrim Fathers have cornered the dining-car until half past three this afternoon?" "How do you mean? They can't do a thing like that." "You try and get seats." "Well, mother, it looks as though we better go back and get another breakfast." She stood up and straightened her dress. "Will you boys keep an eye on our things? Come on, Hubert." They all three went up to the wagon restaurant. A little while after they were gone a steward went through announcing the first service, and pilgrims, with their priests, commenced filing down the corridor. Our friend and his family did not come back. A waiter passed in the corridor with our sandwiches and the bottle of Chablis, and we called him in. "You're going to work to-day," I said. He nodded his head. "They start now, at ten-thirty." "When do we eat?" "Huh! When do I eat?" He left two glasses for the bottle, and we paid him for the sandwiches and tipped him. "I'll get the plates," he said, "or bring them with you." We ate the sandwiches and drank the Chablis and watched the country out of the window. The grain was just beginning to ripen and the fields were full of poppies.	the night of the 25th. Brett can't get up in the morning." "Indeed not!" "If our money comes and you're sure you don't mind." "It will come, all right. I'll see to that." "Tell me what tackle to send for." "Get two or three rods with reels, and lines, and some flies." "I won't fish," Brett put in. "Get two rods, then, and Bill won't have to buy one." "Right," said Mike. "I'll send a wire to the keeper." "Won't it be splendid," Brett said. "Spain! We _will_ have fun." "The 25th. When is that?" "Saturday." "We _will_ have to get ready." "I say," said Mike, "I'm going to the barber's." "I must bathe," said Brett. "Walk up to the hotel with me, Jake. Be a good chap." "We _have_ got the loveliest hotel," Mike said. "I think it's a brothel!" "We left our bags here at the Dingo when we got in, and they asked us at this hotel if we wanted a room for the afternoon only. Seemed frightfully pleased we were going to stay all night." "_I_ believe it's a brothel," Mike said. "And _I_ should know." "Oh, shut it and go and get your hair cut." Mike went out. Brett and I sat on at the bar. "Have another?" "Might." "I needed that," Brett said. We walked up the Rue Delambre. "I haven't seen you since I've been back," Brett said. "No." "How _are_ you, Jake?" "Fine." Brett looked at me. "I say," she said, "is Robert Cohn going on this trip?" "Yes. Why?" "Don't you think it will be a bit rough on him?" "Why should it?" "Who did you think I went down to San Sebastian with?" "Congratulations," I said. We walked along. "What did you say that for?" "I don't know. What would you like me to say?" We walked along and turned a corner. "He behaved rather well, too. He gets a little dull." "Does he?" "I rather thought it would be good for him." "You might take up social service." "Don't be nasty." "I won't." "Didn't you really know?" "No," I said. "I guess I didn't think about it." "Do you think it will be too rough on him?" "That's up to him," I said. "Tell him you're coming. He can always not come." "I'll write him and give him a chance to pull out of it." I did not see Brett again until the night of the 24th of June. "Did you hear from Cohn?" "Rather. He's keen about it." "My God!" "I thought it was rather odd myself." "Says he can't wait to see me." "Does he think you're coming alone?"<\|quote\|>"No. I told him we were all coming down together. Michael and all."</\|quote\|>"He's wonderful." "Isn't he?" They expected their money the next day. We arranged to meet at Pamplona. They would go directly to San Sebastian and take the train from there. We would all meet at the Montoya in Pamplona. If they did not turn up on Monday at the latest we would go on ahead up to Burguete in the mountains, to start fishing. There was a bus to Burguete. I wrote out an itinerary so they could follow us. Bill and I took the morning train from the Gare d'Orsay. It was a lovely day, not too hot, and the country was beautiful from the start. We went back into the diner and had breakfast. Leaving the dining-car I asked the conductor for tickets for the first service. "Nothing until the fifth." "What's this?" There were never more than two servings of lunch on that train, and always plenty of places for both of them. "They're all reserved," the dining-car conductor said. "There will be a fifth service at three-thirty." "This is serious," I said to Bill. "Give him ten francs." "Here," I said. "We want to eat in the first service." The conductor put the ten francs in his pocket. "Thank you," he said. "I would advise you gentlemen to get some sandwiches. All the places for the first four services were reserved at the office of the company." "You'll go a long way, brother," Bill said to him in English. "I suppose if I'd given you five francs you would have advised us to jump off the train." "_Comment?_" "Go to hell!" said Bill. "Get the sandwiches made and a bottle of wine. You tell him, Jake." "And send it up to the next car." I described where we were. In our compartment were a man and his wife and their young son. "I suppose you're Americans, aren't you?" the man asked. "Having a good trip?" "Wonderful," said Bill. "That's what you want to do. Travel while you're young. Mother and I always wanted to get over, but we had to wait a while." "You could have come over ten years ago, if you'd wanted to," the wife said. "What you always said was:" 'See America first!' "I will say we've seen a good deal, take it one way and another." "Say, there's plenty of Americans on this train," the husband said. "They've got seven cars of them from Dayton, Ohio. They've been on a pilgrimage to Rome, and now they're going down to Biarritz and Lourdes." "So, that's what they are. Pilgrims. Goddam Puritans," Bill said. "What part of the States you boys from?" "Kansas City," I said. "He's from Chicago." "You both going to Biarritz?" "No. We're going fishing in Spain." "Well, I never cared for it, myself. There's plenty that do out where I come from, though. We got some of the best fishing in the State of Montana. I've been out with the boys, but I never cared for it any." "Mighty little fishing you did on them trips," his wife said. He winked at us. "You know how the ladies	The Sun Also Rises
"It's always one thing after another,"	Mrs. Augusta Welland	family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in	voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts	her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been	sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he	lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to old Catherine's that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared, since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual in following up my case or your mother's?" It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear, how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden whim to	curiosity about her neighbours, had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent. Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored; and all his wife's efforts to represent him as a man of forceful character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only "chosen") had been met with a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as a valetudinarian now made him an object of engrossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued an imperial summons to him to come and compare diets as soon as his temperature permitted; for old Catherine was now the first to recognise that one could not be too careful about temperatures. Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska's summons a telegram announced that she would arrive from Washington on the evening of the following day. At the Wellands', where the Newland Archers chanced to be lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to old Catherine's that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared, since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual in following up my case or your mother's?" It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear, how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden whim to see her, when there are half a dozen other grandchildren that she might have asked for. But we must never forget that Mamma, in spite of her wonderful vitality, is a very old woman." Mr. Welland's brow remained clouded, and it was evident that his perturbed imagination had fastened at once on this last remark. "Yes: your mother's a very old woman; and for all we know Bencomb may not be as successful with very old people. As you say, my dear, it's always one thing after another; and in another ten or fifteen years I suppose I shall have the pleasing duty of looking about for a new doctor. It's always better to make such a change before it's absolutely necessary." And having arrived at this Spartan decision Mr. Welland firmly took up his fork. "But all the while," Mrs. Welland began again, as she rose from the luncheon-table, and led the way into the wilderness of purple satin and malachite known as the back drawing-room, "I don't see how Ellen's to be got here tomorrow evening; and I do like to have things settled for at least twenty-four hours ahead." Archer turned from the fascinated contemplation of a	one or another of the ruling clans, Beaufort's duplicity seemed doubly cynical. If Mrs. Beaufort had not taken the tone that such misfortunes (the word was her own) were "the test of friendship," compassion for her might have tempered the general indignation against her husband. As it was--and especially after the object of her nocturnal visit to Mrs. Manson Mingott had become known--her cynicism was held to exceed his; and she had not the excuse--nor her detractors the satisfaction--of pleading that she was "a foreigner." It was some comfort (to those whose securities were not in jeopardy) to be able to remind themselves that Beaufort WAS; but, after all, if a Dallas of South Carolina took his view of the case, and glibly talked of his soon being "on his feet again," the argument lost its edge, and there was nothing to do but to accept this awful evidence of the indissolubility of marriage. Society must manage to get on without the Beauforts, and there was an end of it--except indeed for such hapless victims of the disaster as Medora Manson, the poor old Miss Lannings, and certain other misguided ladies of good family who, if only they had listened to Mr. Henry van der Luyden ... "The best thing the Beauforts can do," said Mrs. Archer, summing it up as if she were pronouncing a diagnosis and prescribing a course of treatment, "is to go and live at Regina's little place in North Carolina. Beaufort has always kept a racing stable, and he had better breed trotting horses. I should say he had all the qualities of a successful horsedealer." Every one agreed with her, but no one condescended to enquire what the Beauforts really meant to do. The next day Mrs. Manson Mingott was much better: she recovered her voice sufficiently to give orders that no one should mention the Beauforts to her again, and asked--when Dr. Bencomb appeared--what in the world her family meant by making such a fuss about her health. "If people of my age WILL eat chicken-salad in the evening what are they to expect?" she enquired; and, the doctor having opportunely modified her dietary, the stroke was transformed into an attack of indigestion. But in spite of her firm tone old Catherine did not wholly recover her former attitude toward life. The growing remoteness of old age, though it had not diminished her curiosity about her neighbours, had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent. Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored; and all his wife's efforts to represent him as a man of forceful character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only "chosen") had been met with a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as a valetudinarian now made him an object of engrossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued an imperial summons to him to come and compare diets as soon as his temperature permitted; for old Catherine was now the first to recognise that one could not be too careful about temperatures. Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska's summons a telegram announced that she would arrive from Washington on the evening of the following day. At the Wellands', where the Newland Archers chanced to be lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to old Catherine's that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared, since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual in following up my case or your mother's?" It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear, how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden whim to see her, when there are half a dozen other grandchildren that she might have asked for. But we must never forget that Mamma, in spite of her wonderful vitality, is a very old woman." Mr. Welland's brow remained clouded, and it was evident that his perturbed imagination had fastened at once on this last remark. "Yes: your mother's a very old woman; and for all we know Bencomb may not be as successful with very old people. As you say, my dear, it's always one thing after another; and in another ten or fifteen years I suppose I shall have the pleasing duty of looking about for a new doctor. It's always better to make such a change before it's absolutely necessary." And having arrived at this Spartan decision Mr. Welland firmly took up his fork. "But all the while," Mrs. Welland began again, as she rose from the luncheon-table, and led the way into the wilderness of purple satin and malachite known as the back drawing-room, "I don't see how Ellen's to be got here tomorrow evening; and I do like to have things settled for at least twenty-four hours ahead." Archer turned from the fascinated contemplation of a small painting representing two Cardinals carousing, in an octagonal ebony frame set with medallions of onyx. "Shall I fetch her?" he proposed. "I can easily get away from the office in time to meet the brougham at the ferry, if May will send it there." His heart was beating excitedly as he spoke. Mrs. Welland heaved a sigh of gratitude, and May, who had moved away to the window, turned to shed on him a beam of approval. "So you see, Mamma, everything WILL be settled twenty-four hours in advance," she said, stooping over to kiss her mother's troubled forehead. May's brougham awaited her at the door, and she was to drive Archer to Union Square, where he could pick up a Broadway car to carry him to the office. As she settled herself in her corner she said: "I didn't want to worry Mamma by raising fresh obstacles; but how can you meet Ellen tomorrow, and bring her back to New York, when you're going to Washington?" "Oh, I'm not going," Archer answered. "Not going? Why, what's happened?" Her voice was as clear as a bell, and full of wifely solicitude. "The case is off--postponed." "Postponed? How odd! I saw a note this morning from Mr. Letterblair to Mamma saying that he was going to Washington tomorrow for the big patent case that he was to argue before the Supreme Court. You said it was a patent case, didn't you?" "Well--that's it: the whole office can't go. Letterblair decided to go this morning." "Then it's NOT postponed?" she continued, with an insistence so unlike her that he felt the blood rising to his face, as if he were blushing for her unwonted lapse from all the traditional delicacies. "No: but my going is," he answered, cursing the unnecessary explanations that he had given when he had announced his intention of going to Washington, and wondering where he had read that clever liars give details, but that the cleverest do not. It did not hurt him half as much to tell May an untruth as to see her trying to pretend that she had not detected him. "I'm not going till later on: luckily for the convenience of your family," he continued, taking base refuge in sarcasm. As he spoke he felt that she was looking at him, and he turned his eyes to hers in order not to appear	go and live at Regina's little place in North Carolina. Beaufort has always kept a racing stable, and he had better breed trotting horses. I should say he had all the qualities of a successful horsedealer." Every one agreed with her, but no one condescended to enquire what the Beauforts really meant to do. The next day Mrs. Manson Mingott was much better: she recovered her voice sufficiently to give orders that no one should mention the Beauforts to her again, and asked--when Dr. Bencomb appeared--what in the world her family meant by making such a fuss about her health. "If people of my age WILL eat chicken-salad in the evening what are they to expect?" she enquired; and, the doctor having opportunely modified her dietary, the stroke was transformed into an attack of indigestion. But in spite of her firm tone old Catherine did not wholly recover her former attitude toward life. The growing remoteness of old age, though it had not diminished her curiosity about her neighbours, had blunted her never very lively compassion for their troubles; and she seemed to have no difficulty in putting the Beaufort disaster out of her mind. But for the first time she became absorbed in her own symptoms, and began to take a sentimental interest in certain members of her family to whom she had hitherto been contemptuously indifferent. Mr. Welland, in particular, had the privilege of attracting her notice. Of her sons-in-law he was the one she had most consistently ignored; and all his wife's efforts to represent him as a man of forceful character and marked intellectual ability (if he had only "chosen") had been met with a derisive chuckle. But his eminence as a valetudinarian now made him an object of engrossing interest, and Mrs. Mingott issued an imperial summons to him to come and compare diets as soon as his temperature permitted; for old Catherine was now the first to recognise that one could not be too careful about temperatures. Twenty-four hours after Madame Olenska's summons a telegram announced that she would arrive from Washington on the evening of the following day. At the Wellands', where the Newland Archers chanced to be lunching, the question as to who should meet her at Jersey City was immediately raised; and the material difficulties amid which the Welland household struggled as if it had been a frontier outpost, lent animation to the debate. It was agreed that Mrs. Welland could not possibly go to Jersey City because she was to accompany her husband to old Catherine's that afternoon, and the brougham could not be spared, since, if Mr. Welland were "upset" by seeing his mother-in-law for the first time after her attack, he might have to be taken home at a moment's notice. The Welland sons would of course be "down town," Mr. Lovell Mingott would be just hurrying back from his shooting, and the Mingott carriage engaged in meeting him; and one could not ask May, at the close of a winter afternoon, to go alone across the ferry to Jersey City, even in her own carriage. Nevertheless, it might appear inhospitable--and contrary to old Catherine's express wishes--if Madame Olenska were allowed to arrive without any of the family being at the station to receive her. It was just like Ellen, Mrs. Welland's tired voice implied, to place the family in such a dilemma.<\|quote\|>"It's always one thing after another,"</\|quote\|>the poor lady grieved, in one of her rare revolts against fate; "the only thing that makes me think Mamma must be less well than Dr. Bencomb will admit is this morbid desire to have Ellen come at once, however inconvenient it is to meet her." The words had been thoughtless, as the utterances of impatience often are; and Mr. Welland was upon them with a pounce. "Augusta," he said, turning pale and laying down his fork, "have you any other reason for thinking that Bencomb is less to be relied on than he was? Have you noticed that he has been less conscientious than usual in following up my case or your mother's?" It was Mrs. Welland's turn to grow pale as the endless consequences of her blunder unrolled themselves before her; but she managed to laugh, and take a second helping of scalloped oysters, before she said, struggling back into her old armour of cheerfulness: "My dear, how could you imagine such a thing? I only meant that, after the decided stand Mamma took about its being Ellen's duty to go back to her husband, it seems strange that she should be seized with this sudden whim to	The Age Of Innocence
"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"	Catherine Morland	think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has	glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with	to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps	s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having	being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night	very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much laughter, that though Catherine s supporting opinion was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with	I were agreeing this morning that, though it is vastly well to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found out that our tastes were exactly alike in preferring the country to every other place; really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was quite ridiculous! There was not a single point in which we differed; I would not have had you by for the world; you are such a sly thing, I am sure you would have made some droll remark or other about it." "No, indeed I should not." "Oh, yes you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You would have told us that we seemed born for each other, or some nonsense of that kind, which would have distressed me beyond conception; my cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I would not have had you by for the world." "Indeed you do me injustice; I would not have made so improper a remark upon any account; and besides, I am sure it would never have entered my head." Isabella smiled incredulously and talked the rest of the evening to James. Catherine s resolution of endeavouring to meet Miss Tilney again continued in full force the next morning; and till the usual moment of going to the pump-room, she felt some alarm from the dread of a second prevention. But nothing of that kind occurred, no visitors appeared to delay them, and they all three set off in good time for the pump-room, where the ordinary course of events and conversation took place; Mr. Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk over the politics of the day and compare the accounts of their newspapers; and the ladies walked about together, noticing every new face, and almost every new bonnet in the room. The female part of the Thorpe family, attended by James Morland, appeared among the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual place by the side of her friend. James, who was now in constant attendance, maintained a similar position, and separating themselves from the rest of their party, they walked in that manner for some time, till Catherine began to doubt the happiness of a situation which, confining her entirely to her friend and brother, gave her very little share in the notice of either. They were always engaged in some sentimental discussion or lively dispute, but their sentiment was conveyed in such whispering voices, and their vivacity attended with so much laughter, that though Catherine s supporting opinion was not unfrequently called for by one or the other, she was never able to give any, from not having heard a word of the subject. At length however she was empowered to disengage herself from her friend, by the avowed necessity of speaking to Miss Tilney, whom she most joyfully saw just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she instantly joined, with a firmer determination to be acquainted, than she might have had courage to command, had she not been urged by the disappointment of the day before. Miss Tilney met her with great civility, returned her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued talking together as long as both parties remained in the room; and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not one of these grave reflections troubled the tranquillity of Catherine. She entered the rooms on Thursday evening with feelings very different from what had attended her thither the Monday before. She had then been exulting in her engagement to Thorpe, and was now chiefly anxious to avoid his sight, lest he should engage her again; for though she could not, dared not expect that Mr. Tilney should ask her a third time to dance, her wishes, hopes, and plans all centred in nothing less. Every young lady may feel for my heroine in this critical moment, for every young lady has at some time or other known the same agitation. All have been, or at least all have believed themselves to be, in danger from the pursuit of someone whom they wished to avoid; and all have been anxious for the attentions of someone whom they wished to please. As soon as they were joined by the Thorpes, Catherine s agony began; she fidgeted about if John Thorpe came towards her, hid herself as much as possible from his view, and when he spoke to her pretended not to hear him. The cotillions were over, the country-dancing beginning, and she saw nothing of the Tilneys. "Do not be frightened, my dear Catherine," whispered Isabella, "but I am really going to dance with your brother again. I declare positively it is quite shocking. I tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself, but you and John must keep us in countenance. Make haste, my dear creature, and come to us. John is just walked off, but he will be back in a moment." Catherine had neither time nor inclination to answer. The others walked away, John Thorpe was still in view, and she gave herself up for lost. That she might not appear, however, to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes intently fixed on her fan; and a self-condemnation for her folly, in supposing that among such a crowd they should even meet with the Tilneys in any reasonable time, had just passed through her mind, when she suddenly found herself addressed and again solicited to dance, by Mr. Tilney himself. With what sparkling eyes and ready motion she granted his request, and with how pleasing a flutter of heart she went with him to the set, may be easily imagined. To escape, and, as she believed, so narrowly escape John Thorpe, and to be asked, so immediately on his joining her, asked by Mr. Tilney,	and though in all probability not an observation was made, nor an expression used by either which had not been made and used some thousands of times before, under that roof, in every Bath season, yet the merit of their being spoken with simplicity and truth, and without personal conceit, might be something uncommon. "How well your brother dances!" was an artless exclamation of Catherine s towards the close of their conversation, which at once surprised and amused her companion. "Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he does dance very well." "He must have thought it very odd to hear me say I was engaged the other evening, when he saw me sitting down. But I really had been engaged the whole day to Mr. Thorpe." Miss Tilney could only bow. "You cannot think," added Catherine after a moment s silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I felt so sure of his being quite gone away." "When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you before, he was in Bath but for a couple of days. He came only to engage lodgings for us." "_That_ never occurred to me; and of course, not seeing him anywhere, I thought he must be gone. Was not the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?" "Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes." "I dare say she was very glad to dance. Do you think her pretty?" "Not very."<\|quote\|>"He never comes to the pump-room, I suppose?"</\|quote\|>"Yes, sometimes; but he has rid out this morning with my father." Mrs. Hughes now joined them, and asked Miss Tilney if she was ready to go. "I hope I shall have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," said Catherine. "Shall you be at the cotillion ball tomorrow?" "Perhaps we Yes, I think we certainly shall." "I am glad of it, for we shall all be there." This civility was duly returned; and they parted on Miss Tilney s side with some knowledge of her new acquaintance s feelings, and on Catherine s, without the smallest consciousness of having explained them. She went home very happy. The morning had answered all her hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. What gown and what head-dress she should wear on the occasion became her chief concern. She cannot be justified in it. Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening. This would have been an error in judgment, great though not uncommon, from which one of the other sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great aunt, might have warned her, for man only can be aware of the insensibility of man towards a new gown. It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter. But not	Northanger Abbey
he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.	No speaker	answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not	the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never	chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be	compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the	an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too	the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea." "But I don t want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his." "My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could	head to foot. After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps. He felt a hand laid on his arm and looked round with a start. It was one of the women who had been drinking at the bar. "Why didn t you kill him?" she hissed out, putting haggard face quite close to his. "I knew you were following him when you rushed out from Daly s. You fool! You should have killed him. He has lots of money, and he s as bad as bad." "He is not the man I am looking for," he answered, "and I want no man s money. I want a man s life. The man whose life I want must be nearly forty now. This one is little more than a boy. Thank God, I have not got his blood upon my hands." The woman gave a bitter laugh. "Little more than a boy!" she sneered. "Why, man, it s nigh on eighteen years since Prince Charming made me what I am." "You lie!" cried James Vane. She raised her hand up to heaven. "Before God I am telling the truth," she cried. "Before God?" "Strike me dumb if it ain t so. He is the worst one that comes here. They say he has sold himself to the devil for a pretty face. It s nigh on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn t changed much since then. I have, though," she added, with a sickly leer. "You swear this?" "I swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "But don t give me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have some money for my night s lodging." He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished also. CHAPTER XVII. A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea." "But I don t want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his." "My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does she get annoyed with you about, Duchess?" "For the most trivial things, Mr. Gray, I assure you. Usually because I come in at ten minutes to nine and tell her that I must be dressed by half-past eight." "How unreasonable of her! You should give her warning." "I daren t, Mr. Gray. Why, she invents hats for me. You remember the one I wore at Lady Hilstone s garden-party? You don t, but it is nice of you to pretend that you do. Well, she made it out of nothing. All good hats are made out of nothing." "Like all good reputations, Gladys," interrupted Lord Henry. "Every effect that one produces gives one an enemy. To be popular one must be a mediocrity." "Not with women," said the duchess, shaking her head; "and women rule the world. I assure you we can t bear mediocrities. We women, as some one says, love with our ears, just as you men love with your eyes, if you ever love at all." "It seems to me that we never do anything else," murmured Dorian. "Ah! then, you never really love, Mr. Gray," answered the duchess with mock sadness. "My dear Gladys!" cried Lord Henry. "How can you say that? Romance lives by repetition, and repetition converts an appetite into an art. Besides, each time that one loves is the only time one has ever loved. Difference of object does not alter singleness of passion. It merely intensifies it. We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible." "Even when one has been wounded by it, Harry?" asked the duchess after a pause. "Especially when one has been wounded by it," answered Lord Henry. The duchess turned and looked at Dorian Gray with a curious expression in her eyes. "What do you say to that, Mr. Gray?" she inquired. Dorian hesitated for a moment. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "I always agree with Harry, Duchess." "Even when he is wrong?" "Harry is never wrong, Duchess." "And does his philosophy make you happy?" "I have never searched for happiness. Who wants	for a pretty face. It s nigh on eighteen years since I met him. He hasn t changed much since then. I have, though," she added, with a sickly leer. "You swear this?" "I swear it," came in hoarse echo from her flat mouth. "But don t give me away to him," she whined; "I am afraid of him. Let me have some money for my night s lodging." He broke from her with an oath and rushed to the corner of the street, but Dorian Gray had disappeared. When he looked back, the woman had vanished also. CHAPTER XVII. A week later Dorian Gray was sitting in the conservatory at Selby Royal, talking to the pretty Duchess of Monmouth, who with her husband, a jaded-looking man of sixty, was amongst his guests. It was tea-time, and the mellow light of the huge, lace-covered lamp that stood on the table lit up the delicate china and hammered silver of the service at which the duchess was presiding. Her white hands were moving daintily among the cups, and her full red lips were smiling at something that Dorian had whispered to her. Lord Henry was lying back in a silk-draped wicker chair, looking at them. On a peach-coloured divan sat Lady Narborough, pretending to listen to the duke s description of the last Brazilian beetle that he had added to his collection. Three young men in elaborate smoking-suits were handing tea-cakes to some of the women. The house-party consisted of twelve people, and there were more expected to arrive on the next day. "What are you two talking about?" said Lord Henry, strolling over to the table and putting his cup down. "I hope Dorian has told you about my plan for rechristening everything, Gladys. It is a delightful idea." "But I don t want to be rechristened, Harry," rejoined the duchess, looking up at him with her wonderful eyes. "I am quite satisfied with my own name, and I am sure Mr. Gray should be satisfied with his." "My dear Gladys, I would not alter either name for the world. They are both perfect. I was thinking chiefly of flowers. Yesterday I cut an orchid, for my button-hole. It was a marvellous spotted thing, as effective as the seven deadly sins. In a thoughtless moment I asked one of the gardeners what it was called. He told me it was a fine specimen of _Robinsoniana_, or something dreadful of that kind. It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions. My one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for." "Then what should we call you, Harry?" she asked. "His name is Prince Paradox," said Dorian. "I recognize him in a flash," exclaimed the duchess. "I won t hear of it," laughed Lord Henry, sinking into a chair. "From a label there is no escape! I refuse the title." "Royalties may not abdicate," fell as a warning from pretty lips. "You wish me to defend my throne, then?" "Yes." "I give the truths of to-morrow." "I prefer the mistakes of to-day," she answered. "You disarm me, Gladys,"<\|quote\|>he cried, catching the wilfulness of her mood.</\|quote\|>"Of your shield, Harry, not of your spear." "I never tilt against beauty," he said, with a wave of his hand. "That is your error, Harry, believe me. You value beauty far too much." "How can you say that? I admit that I think that it is better to be beautiful than to be good. But on the other hand, no one is more ready than I am to acknowledge that it is better to be good than to be ugly." "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly sins, then?" cried the duchess. "What becomes of your simile about the orchid?" "Ugliness is one of the seven deadly virtues, Gladys. You, as a good Tory, must not underrate them. Beer, the Bible, and the seven deadly virtues have made our England what she is." "You don t like your country, then?" she asked. "I live in it." "That you may censure it the better." "Would you have me take the verdict of Europe on it?" he inquired. "What do they say of us?" "That Tartuffe has emigrated to England and opened a shop." "Is that yours, Harry?" "I give it to you." "I could not use it. It is too true." "You need not be afraid. Our countrymen never recognize a description." "They are practical." "They are more cunning than practical. When they make up their ledger, they balance stupidity by wealth, and vice by hypocrisy." "Still, we have done great things." "Great things have been thrust on us, Gladys." "We have carried their burden." "Only as far as the Stock Exchange." She shook her head. "I believe in the race," she cried. "It represents the survival of the pushing." "It has development." "Decay fascinates me more." "What of art?" she asked. "It is a malady." "Love?" "An illusion." "Religion?" "The fashionable substitute for belief." "You are a sceptic." "Never! Scepticism is the beginning of faith." "What are you?" "To define is to limit." "Give me a clue." "Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth." "You bewilder me. Let us talk of some one else." "Our host is a delightful topic. Years ago he was christened Prince Charming." "Ah! don t remind me of that," cried Dorian Gray. "Our host is rather horrid this evening," answered the duchess, colouring. "I believe he thinks that Monmouth married me on purely scientific principles as the best specimen he could find of a modern butterfly." "Well, I hope he won t stick pins into you, Duchess," laughed Dorian. "Oh! my maid does that already, Mr. Gray, when she is annoyed with me." "And what does	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
"Ah,"	Mr. Giovanelli	countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for	you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid."	answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when	evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we	this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen	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 riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That s one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne s silence, she asked him why he didn t speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she asked. "It doesn t matter what I believed the other day," said Winterbourne, still laughing. "Well, what do you believe now?" "I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged or not!" He felt the young girl s pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli hurried her forward. "Quick! quick!" he said; "if we get in by midnight we are quite safe." Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed himself beside her. "Don t forget Eugenio s pills!" said Winterbourne as he lifted his hat. "I don t care," said Daisy in a little strange tone, "whether I have Roman fever or not!" Upon this the cab driver cracked his whip,	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 riddle had become easy to read. She was a young lady whom a gentleman need no longer be at pains to respect. He stood there, looking at her--looking at her companion and not reflecting that though he saw them vaguely, he himself must have been more brightly visible. He felt angry with himself that he had bothered so much about the right way of regarding Miss Daisy Miller. Then, as he was going to advance again, he checked himself, not from the fear that he was doing her injustice, but from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That s one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne s silence, she asked him why he didn t speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she asked. "It doesn t matter what I believed the other day," said Winterbourne, still laughing. "Well, what do you believe now?" "I believe that it makes very little difference whether you are engaged or not!" He felt the young girl s pretty eyes fixed upon him through the thick gloom of the archway; she was apparently going to answer. But Giovanelli hurried her forward. "Quick! quick!" he said; "if we get in by midnight we are quite safe." Daisy took her seat in the carriage, and the fortunate Italian placed himself beside her. "Don t forget Eugenio s pills!" said Winterbourne as he lifted his hat. "I don t care," said Daisy in a little strange tone, "whether I have Roman fever or not!" Upon this the cab driver cracked his whip, and they rolled away over the desultory patches of the antique pavement. Winterbourne, to do him justice, as it were, mentioned to no one that he had encountered Miss Miller, at midnight, in the Colosseum with a gentleman; but nevertheless, a couple of days later, the fact of her having been there under these circumstances was known to every member of the little American circle, and commented accordingly. Winterbourne reflected that they had of course known it at the hotel, and that, after Daisy s return, there had been an exchange of remarks between the porter and the cab driver. But the young man was conscious, at the same moment, that it had ceased to be a matter of serious regret to him that the little American flirt should be "talked about" by low-minded menials. These people, a day or two later, had serious information to give: the little American flirt was alarmingly ill. Winterbourne, when the rumor came to him, immediately went to the hotel for more news. He found that two or three charitable friends had preceded him, and that they were being entertained in Mrs. Miller s salon by Randolph. "It s going round at night," said Randolph--" "that s what made her sick. She s always going round at night. I shouldn t think she d want to, it s so plaguy dark. You can t see anything here at night, except when there s a moon. In America there s always a moon!" Mrs. Miller was invisible; she was now, at least, giving her daughter the advantage of her society. It was evident that Daisy was dangerously ill. Winterbourne went often to ask for news of her, and once he saw Mrs. Miller, who, though deeply alarmed, was, rather to his surprise, perfectly composed, and, as it appeared, a most efficient and judicious nurse. She talked a good deal about Dr. Davis, but Winterbourne paid her the compliment of saying to himself that she was not, after all, such a monstrous goose. "Daisy spoke of you the other day," she said to him. "Half the time she doesn t know what she s saying, but that time I think she did. She gave me a message she told me to tell you. She told me to tell you that she never was engaged to that handsome Italian. I am sure I am very glad; Mr.	from a sense of the danger of appearing unbecomingly exhilarated by this sudden revulsion from cautious criticism. He turned away toward the entrance of the place, but, as he did so, he heard Daisy speak again. "Why, it was Mr. Winterbourne! He saw me, and he cuts me!" What a clever little reprobate she was, and how smartly she played at injured innocence! But he wouldn t cut her. Winterbourne came forward again and went toward the great cross. Daisy had got up; Giovanelli lifted his hat. Winterbourne had now begun to think simply of the craziness, from a sanitary point of view, of a delicate young girl lounging away the evening in this nest of malaria. What if she WERE a clever little reprobate? that was no reason for her dying of the perniciosa. "How long have you been here?" he asked almost brutally. Daisy, lovely in the flattering moonlight, looked at him a moment. Then--" "All the evening," she answered, gently. * * * "I never saw anything so pretty." "I am afraid," said Winterbourne, "that you will not think Roman fever very pretty. This is the way people catch it." "I wonder," he added, turning to Giovanelli, "that you, a native Roman, should countenance such a terrible indiscretion."<\|quote\|>"Ah,"</\|quote\|>said the handsome native, "for myself I am not afraid." "Neither am I--for you! I am speaking for this young lady." Giovanelli lifted his well-shaped eyebrows and showed his brilliant teeth. But he took Winterbourne s rebuke with docility. "I told the signorina it was a grave indiscretion, but when was the signorina ever prudent?" "I never was sick, and I don t mean to be!" the signorina declared. "I don t look like much, but I m healthy! I was bound to see the Colosseum by moonlight; I shouldn t have wanted to go home without that; and we have had the most beautiful time, haven t we, Mr. Giovanelli? If there has been any danger, Eugenio can give me some pills. He has got some splendid pills." "I should advise you," said Winterbourne, "to drive home as fast as possible and take one!" "What you say is very wise," Giovanelli rejoined. "I will go and make sure the carriage is at hand." And he went forward rapidly. Daisy followed with Winterbourne. He kept looking at her; she seemed not in the least embarrassed. Winterbourne said nothing; Daisy chattered about the beauty of the place. "Well, I HAVE seen the Colosseum by moonlight!" she exclaimed. "That s one good thing." Then, noticing Winterbourne s silence, she asked him why he didn t speak. He made no answer; he only began to laugh. They passed under one of the dark archways; Giovanelli was in front with the carriage. Here Daisy stopped a moment, looking at the young American. "DID you believe I was engaged, the other day?" she	Daisy Miller
"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"	Sibyl Vane	her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale	speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that	If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But	memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you	grotesqueness to the words. The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich ..." "Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a	your acting. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money." The girl looked up and pouted. "Money, Mother?" she cried, "what does money matter? Love is more than money." "Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate." "He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me," said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. "I don t know how we could manage without him," answered the elder woman querulously. Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don t want him any more, Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love him," she said simply. "Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words. The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich ..." "Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined	times, and with joy. It was clear to him that the experimental method was the only method by which one could arrive at any scientific analysis of the passions; and certainly Dorian Gray was a subject made to his hand, and seemed to promise rich and fruitful results. His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences, yet it was not a simple, but rather a very complex passion. What there was in it of the purely sensuous instinct of boyhood had been transformed by the workings of the imagination, changed into something that seemed to the lad himself to be remote from sense, and was for that very reason all the more dangerous. It was the passions about whose origin we deceived ourselves that tyrannized most strongly over us. Our weakest motives were those of whose nature we were conscious. It often happened that when we thought we were experimenting on others we were really experimenting on ourselves. While Lord Henry sat dreaming on these things, a knock came to the door, and his valet entered and reminded him it was time to dress for dinner. He got up and looked out into the street. The sunset had smitten into scarlet gold the upper windows of the houses opposite. The panes glowed like plates of heated metal. The sky above was like a faded rose. He thought of his friend s young fiery-coloured life and wondered how it was all going to end. When he arrived home, about half-past twelve o clock, he saw a telegram lying on the hall table. He opened it and found it was from Dorian Gray. It was to tell him that he was engaged to be married to Sibyl Vane. CHAPTER V. "Mother, Mother, I am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her face in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their dingy sitting-room contained. "I am so happy!" she repeated, "and you must be happy, too!" Mrs. Vane winced and put her thin, bismuth-whitened hands on her daughter s head. "Happy!" she echoed, "I am only happy, Sibyl, when I see you act. You must not think of anything but your acting. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money." The girl looked up and pouted. "Money, Mother?" she cried, "what does money matter? Love is more than money." "Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate." "He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me," said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. "I don t know how we could manage without him," answered the elder woman querulously. Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don t want him any more, Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love him," she said simply. "Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words. The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich ..." "Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it." "You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London." "Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know anything about that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it." "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to let me have your last afternoon. Where shall we go? Let us go to the park." "I am too shabby," he answered, frowning. "Only swell people go to the park." "Nonsense, Jim," she whispered, stroking the sleeve of his coat. He hesitated for a moment. "Very well," he said at last, "but don t be too long dressing." She danced out of the door. One could hear her singing as she ran upstairs. Her little feet pattered overhead. He walked up and down the room two or three times. Then he turned to the still figure in the chair. "Mother, are my things ready?" he asked. "Quite ready, James," she answered, keeping her eyes on her work. For some months past she had felt ill at ease when she was alone with this rough stern son of hers. Her shallow secret nature was troubled when their eyes met. She used to wonder if he suspected anything. The silence, for he made no other observation, became intolerable to her. She began to complain. Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders. "I hope you will be contented, James, with your sea-faring life," she said. "You must remember that it is your own choice. You might have entered a solicitor s office. Solicitors are a very respectable class, and in the country often dine with the best families." "I hate offices, and	but your acting. Mr. Isaacs has been very good to us, and we owe him money." The girl looked up and pouted. "Money, Mother?" she cried, "what does money matter? Love is more than money." "Mr. Isaacs has advanced us fifty pounds to pay off our debts and to get a proper outfit for James. You must not forget that, Sibyl. Fifty pounds is a very large sum. Mr. Isaacs has been most considerate." "He is not a gentleman, Mother, and I hate the way he talks to me," said the girl, rising to her feet and going over to the window. "I don t know how we could manage without him," answered the elder woman querulously. Sibyl Vane tossed her head and laughed. "We don t want him any more, Mother. Prince Charming rules life for us now." Then she paused. A rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks. Quick breath parted the petals of her lips. They trembled. Some southern wind of passion swept over her and stirred the dainty folds of her dress. "I love him," she said simply. "Foolish child! foolish child!" was the parrot-phrase flung in answer. The waving of crooked, false-jewelled fingers gave grotesqueness to the words. The girl laughed again. The joy of a caged bird was in her voice. Her eyes caught the melody and echoed it in radiance, then closed for a moment, as though to hide their secret. When they opened, the mist of a dream had passed across them. Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense. She did not listen. She was free in her prison of passion. Her prince, Prince Charming, was with her. She had called on memory to remake him. She had sent her soul to search for him, and it had brought him back. His kiss burned again upon her mouth. Her eyelids were warm with his breath. Then wisdom altered its method and spoke of espial and discovery. This young man might be rich. If so, marriage should be thought of. Against the shell of her ear broke the waves of worldly cunning. The arrows of craft shot by her. She saw the thin lips moving, and smiled. Suddenly she felt the need to speak. The wordy silence troubled her. "Mother, Mother," she cried,<\|quote\|>"why does he love me so much? I know why I love him. I love him because he is like what love himself should be. But what does he see in me? I am not worthy of him. And yet why, I cannot tell though I feel so much beneath him, I don t feel humble. I feel proud, terribly proud. Mother, did you love my father as I love Prince Charming?"</\|quote\|>The elder woman grew pale beneath the coarse powder that daubed her cheeks, and her dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain. Sybil rushed to her, flung her arms round her neck, and kissed her. "Forgive me, Mother. I know it pains you to talk about our father. But it only pains you because you loved him so much. Don t look so sad. I am as happy to-day as you were twenty years ago. Ah! let me be happy for ever!" "My child, you are far too young to think of falling in love. Besides, what do you know of this young man? You don t even know his name. The whole thing is most inconvenient, and really, when James is going away to Australia, and I have so much to think of, I must say that you should have shown more consideration. However, as I said before, if he is rich ..." "Ah! Mother, Mother, let me be happy!" Mrs. Vane glanced at her, and with one of those false theatrical gestures that so often become a mode of second nature to a stage-player, clasped her in her arms. At this moment, the door opened and a young lad with rough brown hair came into the room. He was thick-set of figure, and his hands and feet were large and somewhat clumsy in movement. He was not so finely bred as his sister. One would hardly have guessed the close relationship that existed between them. Mrs. Vane fixed her eyes on him and intensified her smile. She mentally elevated her son to the dignity of an audience. She felt sure that the _tableau_ was interesting. "You might keep some of your kisses for me, Sibyl, I think," said the lad with a good-natured grumble. "Ah! but you don t like being kissed, Jim," she cried. "You are a dreadful old bear." And she ran across the room and hugged him. James Vane looked into his sister s face with tenderness. "I want you to come out with me for a walk, Sibyl. I don t suppose I shall ever see this horrid London again. I am sure I don t want to." "My son, don t say such dreadful things," murmured Mrs. Vane, taking up a tawdry theatrical dress, with a sigh, and beginning to patch it. She felt a little disappointed that he had not joined the group. It would have increased the theatrical picturesqueness of the situation. "Why not, Mother? I mean it." "You pain me, my son. I trust you will return from Australia in a position of affluence. I believe there is no society of any kind in the Colonies nothing that I would call society so when you have made your fortune, you must come back and assert yourself in London." "Society!" muttered the lad. "I don t want to know anything about that. I should like to make some money to take you and Sibyl off the stage. I hate it." "Oh, Jim!" said Sibyl, laughing, "how unkind of you! But are you really going for a walk with me? That will be nice! I was afraid you were going to say good-bye to some of your friends to Tom Hardy, who gave you that hideous pipe, or Ned Langton, who makes fun of you for smoking it. It is very sweet of you to	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
By that time the footsteps were at the door.	No speaker	gathering of flue and dust.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"What shall I say?" Don	bedstead, to lie among the gathering of flue and dust.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"What shall I say?" Don asked himself; "she will want	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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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	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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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. "Don! Don, my boy!" came in low, gentle tones. For one moment the boy's heart prompted	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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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. "Don! Don, my boy!" 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	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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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. "Don! Don, my boy!" 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,"	their eyes met, and then averted hers; and from time to time his mother looked at him in so pitiful and imploring a manner that one moment he felt as if he were an utter scoundrel, and the next that he would do anything to take her in his arms and try and convince her that he was not so bad as she thought. It was a curious mental encounter between pride, obstinacy, and the better feelings of his nature; and unfortunately the former won, for soon after the meal was over he 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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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. "Don! Don, my boy!" 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	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.<\|quote\|>By that time the footsteps were at the door.</\|quote\|>"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. "Don! Don, my boy!" 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	Don Lavington
"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"	Anne Shirley	when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it will,"	the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it will," said Marilla. "Go to sleep	irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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	I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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	interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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	woods, and I'd look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. "You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want." "Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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	announced Anne. Marilla looked horrified astonishment. "Why, Anne, what do you mean? Were you never taught to say your prayers? God always wants little girls to say their prayers. Don't you know who God is, Anne?" "?God is a spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness, and truth,'" responded Anne promptly and glibly. Marilla looked rather relieved. "So you do know something then, thank goodness! You're not quite a heathen. Where did you learn that?" "Oh, at the asylum Sunday-school. They made us learn the whole catechism. I liked it pretty well. There's something splendid about some of the words." ?Infinite, eternal and unchangeable.' "Isn't that grand? It has such a roll to it--just like a big organ playing. You couldn't quite call it poetry, I suppose, but it sounds a lot like it, doesn't it?" "We're not talking about poetry, Anne--we are talking about saying your prayers. Don't you know it's a terrible wicked thing not to say your prayers every night? I'm afraid you are a very bad little girl." "You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair," said Anne reproachfully. "People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble is. Mrs. Thomas told me that God made my hair red _on purpose_, and I've never cared about Him since. And anyhow I'd always be too tired at night to bother saying prayers. People who have to look after twins can't be expected to say their prayers. Now, do you honestly think they can?" Marilla decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne." "Why, of course, if you want me to," assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it." "You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. "Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. "You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want." "Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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	decided that Anne's religious training must be begun at once. Plainly there was no time to be lost. "You must say your prayers while you are under my roof, Anne." "Why, of course, if you want me to," assented Anne cheerfully. "I'd do anything to oblige you. But you'll have to tell me what to say for this once. After I get into bed I'll imagine out a real nice prayer to say always. I believe that it will be quite interesting, now that I come to think of it." "You must kneel down," said Marilla in embarrassment. Anne knelt at Marilla's knee and looked up gravely. "Why must people kneel down to pray? If I really wanted to pray I'll tell you what I'd do. I'd go out into a great big field all alone or into the deep, deep, woods, and I'd look up into the sky--up--up--up--into that lovely blue sky that looks as if there was no end to its blueness. And then I'd just _feel_ a prayer. Well, I'm ready. What am I to say?" Marilla felt more embarrassed than ever. She had intended to teach Anne the childish classic, "Now I lay me down to sleep." But she had, as I have told you, the glimmerings of a sense of humor--which is simply another name for a sense of fitness of things; and it suddenly occurred to her that that simple little prayer, sacred to white-robed childhood lisping at motherly knees, was entirely unsuited to this freckled witch of a girl who knew and cared nothing about God's love, since she had never had it translated to her through the medium of human love. "You're old enough to pray for yourself, Anne," she said finally. "Just thank God for your blessings and ask Him humbly for the things you want." "Well, I'll do my best," promised Anne, burying her face in Marilla's lap. "Gracious heavenly Father--that's the way the ministers say it in church, so I suppose it's all right in private prayer, isn't it?" she interjected, lifting her head for a moment. "Gracious heavenly Father, I thank Thee for the White Way of Delight and the Lake of Shining Waters and Bonny and the Snow Queen. I'm really extremely grateful for them. And that's all the blessings I can think of just now to thank Thee for. As for the things I want, they're so numerous that it would take a great deal of time to name them all so I will only mention the two most important. Please let me stay at Green Gables; and please let me be good-looking when I grow up. I remain, "Yours respectfully, Anne Shirley." "There, did I do all right?" she asked eagerly, getting up. "I could have made it much more flowery if I'd had a little more time to think it over." Poor Marilla was only preserved from complete collapse by remembering that it was not irreverence, but simply spiritual ignorance on the part of Anne that was responsible for this extraordinary petition. She tucked the child up in bed, mentally vowing that she should be taught a prayer the very next day, and was leaving the room with the light when Anne called her back.<\|quote\|>"I've just thought of it now. I should have said, ?Amen' in place of ?yours respectfully,' shouldn't I?--the way the ministers do. I'd forgotten it, but I felt a prayer should be finished off in some way, so I put in the other. Do you suppose it will make any difference?"</\|quote\|>"I--I don't suppose it 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,	Anne Of Green Gables
“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”	Tom	the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?”	an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business.	The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As	impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody	once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole	be the man smoking two cigarettes.” “We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes,	well. Wilson was so sick that he looked guilty, unforgivably guilty—as if he had just got some poor girl with child. “I’ll let you have that car,” said Tom. “I’ll send it over tomorrow afternoon.” That locality was always vaguely disquieting, even in the broad glare of afternoon, and now I turned my head as though I had been warned of something behind. Over the ash-heaps the giant eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg kept their vigil, but I perceived, after a moment, that other eyes were regarding us with peculiar intensity from less than twenty feet away. In one of the windows over the garage the curtains had been moved aside a little, and Myrtle Wilson was peering down at the car. So engrossed was she that she had no consciousness of being observed, and one emotion after another crept into her face like objects into a slowly developing picture. Her expression was curiously familiar—it was an expression I had often seen on women’s faces, but on Myrtle Wilson’s face it seemed purposeless and inexplicable until I realized that her eyes, wide with jealous terror, were fixed not on Tom, but on Jordan Baker, whom she took to be his wife. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ There is no confusion like the confusion of a simple mind, and as we drove away Tom was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easygoing blue coupé. “Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.” The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy signalled us to draw up alongside. “Where are we going?” she cried. “How about the movies?” “It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.” “We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat a short, restless tattoo and Tom eyed him suddenly. “By the way, Mr. Gatsby, I understand you’re an Oxford man.” “Not exactly.” “Oh, yes, I understand you went to Oxford.” “Yes—I went there.” A pause. Then Tom’s voice, incredulous and insulting: “You must have gone there about the time Biloxi went to New Haven.” Another pause. A waiter knocked and came in with crushed mint and ice but the silence was unbroken by his “thank you” and the soft closing of the door. This tremendous detail was to be cleared up at last. “I told you I went there,” said Gatsby. “I heard you, but I’d like to know when.” “It was in nineteen-nineteen, I only stayed five months. That’s why I can’t really call myself an Oxford man.” Tom glanced around to see if we mirrored his unbelief. But we were all looking at Gatsby. “It was an opportunity they gave to some of the officers after the armistice,” he continued. “We could go to any of the universities in England or France.” I wanted to get up and slap him on the back. I had one of those renewals of complete faith in him that I’d experienced before. Daisy rose, smiling faintly, and went to the table. “Open the whisky, Tom,” she ordered, “and I’ll make you a mint julep. Then you won’t seem so stupid to yourself … Look at the mint!” “Wait a minute,” snapped Tom, “I want to ask Mr. Gatsby one more question.” “Go on,” Gatsby said politely. “What kind of a row are you trying to cause in my house anyhow?” They were out in the open at last and Gatsby was content. “He isn’t causing a row,” Daisy looked desperately from one to the other. “You’re causing a row. Please have a little self-control.” “Self-control!” repeated Tom incredulously. “I suppose the latest thing is to sit back and let Mr. Nobody from Nowhere make love to your wife. Well, if that’s the idea you can count me out … Nowadays people begin by sneering at family life and family institutions, and next they’ll throw everything overboard and have intermarriage between black and white.” Flushed with his impassioned gibberish, he saw himself standing alone on the last barrier of civilization. “We’re all white here,” murmured Jordan. “I know I’m not very popular. I don’t give big parties. I suppose you’ve got to make your house into a pigsty in order to have any friends—in the modern world.” Angry as I was, as we all were, I was	was feeling the hot whips of panic. His wife and his mistress, until an hour ago secure and inviolate, were slipping precipitately from his control. Instinct made him step on the accelerator with the double purpose of overtaking Daisy and leaving Wilson behind, and we sped along toward Astoria at fifty miles an hour, until, among the spidery girders of the elevated, we came in sight of the easygoing blue coupé. “Those big movies around Fiftieth Street are cool,” suggested Jordan. “I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it—overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.” The word “sensuous” had the effect of further disquieting Tom, but before he could invent a protest the coupé came to a stop, and Daisy signalled us to draw up alongside. “Where are we going?” she cried. “How about the movies?” “It’s so hot,” she complained. “You go. We’ll ride around and meet you after.” With an effort her wit rose faintly. “We’ll meet you on some corner. I’ll be the man smoking two cigarettes.” “We can’t argue about it here,” Tom said impatiently, as a truck gave out a cursing whistle behind us. “You follow me to the south side of Central Park, in front of the Plaza.” Several times he turned his head and looked back for their car, and if the traffic delayed them he slowed up until they came into sight. I think he was afraid they would dart down a side-street and out of his life forever. But they didn’t. And we all took the less explicable step of engaging the parlour of a suite in the Plaza Hotel. The prolonged and tumultuous argument that ended by herding us into that room eludes me, though I have a sharp physical memory that, in the course of it, my underwear kept climbing like a damp snake around my legs and intermittent beads of sweat raced cool across my back. The notion originated with Daisy’s suggestion that we hire five bathrooms and take cold baths, and then assumed more tangible form as “a place to have a mint julep.” Each of us said over and over that it was a “crazy idea” —we all talked at once to a baffled clerk and thought, or pretended to think, that we were being very funny … The room was large and stifling, and, though it was already four o’clock, opening the windows admitted only a gust of hot shrubbery from the Park. Daisy went to the mirror and stood with her back to us, fixing her hair. “It’s a swell suite,” whispered Jordan respectfully, and everyone laughed. “Open another window,” commanded Daisy, without turning around. “There aren’t any more.” “Well, we’d better telephone for an axe—” “The thing to do is to forget about the heat,” said Tom impatiently. “You make it ten times worse by crabbing about it.” He unrolled the bottle of whisky from the towel and put it on the table. “Why not let her alone, old sport?” remarked Gatsby. “You’re the one that wanted to come to town.” There was a moment of silence. The telephone book slipped from its nail and splashed to the floor, whereupon Jordan whispered, “Excuse me” —but this time no one laughed. “I’ll pick it up,” I offered. “I’ve got it.” Gatsby examined the parted string, muttered “Hum!” in an interested way, and tossed the book on a chair.<\|quote\|>“That’s a great expression of yours, isn’t it?”</\|quote\|>said Tom sharply. “What is?” “All this ‘old sport’ business. Where’d you pick that up?” “Now see here, Tom,” said Daisy, turning around from the mirror, “if you’re going to make personal remarks I won’t stay here a minute. Call up and order some ice for the mint julep.” As Tom took up the receiver the compressed heat exploded into sound and we were listening to the portentous chords of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March from the ballroom below. “Imagine marrying anybody in this heat!” cried Jordan dismally. “Still—I was married in the middle of June,” Daisy remembered. “Louisville in June! Somebody fainted. Who was it fainted, Tom?” “Biloxi,” he answered shortly. “A man named Biloxi. ‘Blocks’ Biloxi, and he made boxes—that’s a fact—and he was from Biloxi, Tennessee.” “They carried him into my house,” appended Jordan, “because we lived just two doors from the church. And he stayed three weeks, until Daddy told him he had to get out. The day after he left Daddy died.” After a moment she added as if she might have sounded irreverent, “There wasn’t any connection.” “I used to know a Bill Biloxi from Memphis,” I remarked. “That was his cousin. I knew his whole family history before he left. He gave me an aluminium putter that I use today.” The music had died down as the ceremony began and now a long cheer floated in at the window, followed by intermittent cries of “Yea—ea—ea!” and finally by a burst of jazz as the dancing began. “We’re getting old,” said Daisy. “If we were young we’d rise and dance.” “Remember Biloxi,” Jordan warned her. “Where’d you know him, Tom?” “Biloxi?” He concentrated with an effort. “I didn’t know him. He was a friend of Daisy’s.” “He was not,” she denied. “I’d never seen him before. He came down in the private car.” “Well, he said he knew you. He said he was raised in Louisville. Asa Bird brought him around at the last minute and asked if we had room for him.” Jordan smiled. “He was probably bumming his way home. He told me he was president of your class at Yale.” Tom and I looked at each other blankly. “Biloxi?” “First place, we didn’t have any president—” Gatsby’s foot beat	The Great Gatsby
he said,	No speaker	shook his head. "No, Maurice,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"I can accept no more	welcome to it." The artist shook his head. "No, Maurice,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"I can accept no more from you. I have already	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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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	"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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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	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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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 the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business man, and I can attend to it without distaste." "But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life." "Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in your room?" "Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone two minutes." "Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?" "Hamilton was up yesterday."	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. "If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?" "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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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 the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business man, and I can attend to it without distaste." "But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've been doing all my life." "Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in your room?" "Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone two minutes." "Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?" "Hamilton was up yesterday." "Alone?" "Yes, for a while. His boy, Joe, shaved me, and Jack was up for a while brushing my clothes." "Then it lies between Jack and Joe?" Frank hesitated. "Neither one was left alone, though." "Then only Hamilton and Esterton have been alone for any time in your room since you left the key in your cabinet?" "Those are the only ones of whom I know anything. What others went in during the day, of course, I know nothing about. It could n't have been either Esterton or Hamilton." "Not Esterton, no." "And Hamilton is beyond suspicion." "No servant is beyond suspicion." "I would trust Hamilton anywhere," said Frank stoutly, "and with anything." "That 's noble of you, Frank, and I would have done the same, but we must remember that we are not in the old days now. The negroes are becoming less faithful and less contented, and more 's the pity, and a deal more ambitious, although I have never had any unfaithfulness on the part of Hamilton to complain of before." "Then do not condemn him now." "I shall not condemn any one until I have proof positive of his guilt or such clear circumstantial evidence that my reason is satisfied." "I do not believe that you will ever have that against old Hamilton." "This spirit of trust does you credit, Frank, and I very much hope that you may be right. But as soon as a negro like Hamilton learns the value of money and begins to earn it, at the same time he begins to covet some easy and rapid way of securing it. The old negro knew nothing of the value of money. When he stole, he stole hams and bacon and chickens. These were his immediate necessities and the things he valued. The present laughs at this tendency without knowing the cause. The present negro resents the laugh, and he has learned to value other things than those which satisfy his belly." Frank looked bored. "But pardon me for boring you. I know you want to go to bed. Go and leave everything to me." The young man reluctantly withdrew, and Maurice went to the telephone and rung up the police station. As Maurice had said, he was a plain, hard-headed business man, and it took very few words for him to put the Chief of Police in possession of the principal facts	"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,"<\|quote\|>he said,</\|quote\|>"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 the use? They 'll never find out where the stuff went to." "Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things must jar on	The Sport Of The Gods
"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."	Mr. Collins	the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully	of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as	I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By	than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every	But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies." "Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court." "Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced it to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with, "Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about	very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?" "The garden in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence." "I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?" "She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property." "Ah!" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?" "She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accomplishments, which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies." "Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court." "Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced it to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with, "Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town." Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said, "I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess;--for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin." Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon. CHAPTER XV. Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest	it all as his own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins, the excellence of its cookery was owing. But here he was set right by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour. CHAPTER XIV. During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he protested that he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank--such affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the discourses, which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but _he_ had never seen any thing but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage; where she had perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets up stairs. "That is all very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?" "The garden in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence." "I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?" "She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property." "Ah!" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?" "She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accomplishments, which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies." "Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court." "Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced it to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with, "Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town." Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said, "I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess;--for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin." Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon. CHAPTER XV. Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up, had given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. Having now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own part. His plan did not vary on seeing them.--Miss Bennet's lovely face confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour's t?te-?-t?te with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.--" "As to her _younger_ daughters she could not take upon her to say--she could not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her _eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged." Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring	experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both the discourses, which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but _he_ had never seen any thing but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the neighbourhood, nor to his leaving his parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage; where she had perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself,--some shelves in the closets up stairs. "That is all very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?" "The garden in which stands my humble abode, is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence." "I think you said she was a widow, sir? has she any family?" "She has one only daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property." "Ah!" cried Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? is she handsome?" "She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that in point of true beauty, Miss De Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accomplishments, which she could not otherwise have failed of; as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies." "Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court." "Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine myself one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea, and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her.--These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay." "You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"<\|quote\|>"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."</\|quote\|>Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure. By tea-time however the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but on beholding it, (for every thing announced it to be from a circulating library,) he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels.--Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed.--Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with, "Do you know, mama, that my uncle Philips talks of turning away Richard, and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town." Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said, "I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess;--for certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin." Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon. CHAPTER XV. Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up, had given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility. Having now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome	Pride And Prejudice
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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the	No speaker	be serious at Windy Corner?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on	lady retorted. "How dare you be serious at Windy Corner?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing 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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy.	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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than	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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time,	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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had	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." 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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from possessing. "Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must accept them." "We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy. "Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her remark that she did not quite understand his position. "How?" "It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?" She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference. "Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same place." "We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption jarred. "My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence comes here." "We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing. "Oh, I see, dear--poetry." She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused. ""I tell you who has no" 'fences,' "as you call them," she said, "and that's Mr. Beebe." "A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless." Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling that prompted it. "Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully. "I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average.	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?"<\|quote\|>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 serious any more. An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we become true believers, in case any true believer should be present. So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the</\|quote\|>"Fiasco" "--family honoured pun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier shrine of joy. Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a presentable man. Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers. At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been. "Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were driving home. "Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself. "Is it typical of country society?" "I suppose so. Mother, would it be?" "Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember the hang of one of the dresses. Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and said: "To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous." "I am so sorry that you were stranded." "Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women smirking!" "One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next time." "But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and should be treated as such." Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation was just. "How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?" "I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is that of the Inglese Italianato." "Inglese Italianato?" "E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?" She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far	A Room With A View
Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!	No speaker	you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried.	a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--"	Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother.	I' "George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no	good for both of you." To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer. "I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is." "And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale. "The old trouble; things won't fit." "What things?" "The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?" In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said: "'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I' "George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow. He said: "Miss Bartlett." "Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?" "In the nave." "I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She checked herself. "Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson.	a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlotte would object most strongly. "What are we to do with him?" he asked. "He comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves--like that; like the little child who ought to have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What did you say?" Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said: "Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them. By understanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will be good for both of you." To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer. "I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is." "And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale. "The old trouble; things won't fit." "What things?" "The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?" In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said: "'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I' "George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow. He said: "Miss Bartlett." "Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?" "In the nave." "I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She checked herself. "Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson. "Poor girl!" She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself. "Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it. Good-bye. Thank you both so much for all your kindness. Ah, yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church." She joined her cousin. Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the Letter "S" It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would	The feeling soon passed; it was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle. Born of silence and of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr. Emerson returned, and she could re-enter the world of rapid talk, which was alone familiar to her. "Were you snubbed?" asked his son tranquilly. "But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don't know how many people. They won't come back." "...full of innate sympathy...quickness to perceive good in others...vision of the brotherhood of man..." Scraps of the lecture on St. Francis came floating round the partition wall. "Don't let us spoil yours," he continued to Lucy. "Have you looked at those saints?" "Yes," said Lucy. "They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?" He did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it. George, rather to her relief, refused to move, and she and the old man wandered not unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things inside its walls. There were also beggars to avoid and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old lady with her dog, and here and there a priest modestly edging to his Mass through the groups of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half interested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he believed he had impaired, and then he anxiously watched his son. "Why will he look at that fresco?" he said uneasily. "I saw nothing in it." "I like Giotto," she replied. "It is so wonderful what they say about his tactile values. Though I like things like the Della Robbia babies better." "So you ought. A baby is worth a dozen saints. And my baby's worth the whole of Paradise, and as far as I can see he lives in Hell." Lucy again felt that this did not do. "In Hell," he repeated. "He's unhappy." "Oh, dear!" said Lucy. "How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive? What more is one to give him? And think how he has been brought up--free from all the superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the name of God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to grow up happy." She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish old man, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlotte would object most strongly. "What are we to do with him?" he asked. "He comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves--like that; like the little child who ought to have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What did you say?" Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said: "Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them. By understanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will be good for both of you." To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer. "I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is." "And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale. "The old trouble; things won't fit." "What things?" "The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?" In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said: "'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I' "George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow. He said: "Miss Bartlett." "Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?" "In the nave." "I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She checked herself. "Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson. "Poor girl!" She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself. "Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it. Good-bye. Thank you both so much for all your kindness. Ah, yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church." She joined her cousin. Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the Letter "S" It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions. Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never. She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at all like strings of pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate young lady, who performs so tragically on a summer's evening with the window open. Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped between love and hatred and jealousy, and all the furniture of the pictorial style. And she was tragical only in the sense that she was great, for she loved to play on the side of Victory. Victory of what and over what--that is more than the words of daily life can tell us. But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay; yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy had decided that they should triumph. A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her to do the thing she really liked, and after lunch she opened the little draped piano. A few people lingered round and praised her playing, but finding that she made no reply, dispersed to their rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep. She took no notice of Mr. Emerson looking for his son, nor of Miss Bartlett looking for Miss Lavish, nor of Miss Lavish looking for her cigarette-case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by the mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own; and by touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire. Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this illogical element in Miss Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion at Tunbridge Wells when he had discovered it. It was at one of those entertainments where the upper classes entertain the lower. The seats were filled with a respectful audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish, under the auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited, or imitated the drawing of a champagne cork. Among the promised items was "Miss Honeychurch. Piano. Beethoven," and Mr. Beebe was wondering whether it would be Adelaida, or the march of The Ruins of Athens, when his composure was disturbed by the opening bars	dozen saints. And my baby's worth the whole of Paradise, and as far as I can see he lives in Hell." Lucy again felt that this did not do. "In Hell," he repeated. "He's unhappy." "Oh, dear!" said Lucy. "How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive? What more is one to give him? And think how he has been brought up--free from all the superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the name of God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to grow up happy." She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish old man, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlotte would object most strongly. "What are we to do with him?" he asked. "He comes out for his holiday to Italy, and behaves--like that; like the little child who ought to have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the tombstone. Eh? What did you say?" Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said: "Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. You might help me. He has known so few women, and you have the time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose? But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them. By understanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will be good for both of you." To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer. "I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is." "And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale. "The old trouble; things won't fit." "What things?" "The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't." "Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?" In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said: "'From far, from eve and morning, And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I' "George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in this world sorrow." Miss Honeychurch assented. "Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes."<\|quote\|>Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!</\|quote\|>"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment. Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or the Lakes." The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the shadow. He said: "Miss Bartlett." "Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?" "In the nave." "I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She checked herself. "Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson. "Poor girl!" She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling herself. "Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without trying to invent it. Good-bye. Thank you both so much for all your kindness. Ah, yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church." She joined her cousin. Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the Letter "S" It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions. Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucy had done so never. She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at all like strings of pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was suitable for one of her age and situation. Nor was she the passionate young lady, who performs so tragically on a summer's evening with the window open. Passion was there, but it could not be easily labelled; it slipped between love and hatred and jealousy, and all the furniture of the pictorial style. And she was tragical only in the sense that she was great, for she loved to play on the side of Victory. Victory of what and over what--that is more than the words of daily life can tell us. But that some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay; yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy had decided that they should triumph. A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her	A Room With A View
"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"	Edward Ferrars	their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do	sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite	to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I	wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has	have always set her down as a lively girl." "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." "But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward started "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor	their heirs." "No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it." "Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?" "Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them." "Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not at all altered." "She is only grown a little more grave than she was." "Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "_you_ need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself." "Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never was a part of _my_ character." "Nor do I think it a part of Marianne s," said Elinor; "I should hardly call her a lively girl she is very earnest, very eager in all she does sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation but she is not often really merry." "I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl." "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." "But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward started "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she	in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less." Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their future expenses at Combe Magna. "Hunters!" repeated Edward "but why must you have hunters? Every body does not hunt." Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do." "I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!" "Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness. "We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite of the insufficiency of wealth." "Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be! I wonder what I should do with it!" Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point. "I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs. Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help." "You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor, "and your difficulties will soon vanish." "What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," said Edward, "in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books! Thomson, Cowper, Scott she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes." "I love to be reminded of the past, Edward whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall it and you will never offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent some of it, at least my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books." "And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their heirs." "No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it." "Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?" "Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them." "Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not at all altered." "She is only grown a little more grave than she was." "Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "_you_ need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself." "Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never was a part of _my_ character." "Nor do I think it a part of Marianne s," said Elinor; "I should hardly call her a lively girl she is very earnest, very eager in all she does sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation but she is not often really merry." "I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl." "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." "But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward started "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out. "I am going into the village to see my horses," said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently." Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne s attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque." "I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you boast of it?" "I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses.	every new print of merit to be sent you and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books! Thomson, Cowper, Scott she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes." "I love to be reminded of the past, Edward whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall it and you will never offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent some of it, at least my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books." "And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their heirs." "No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it." "Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?" "Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them." "Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not at all altered." "She is only grown a little more grave than she was." "Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "_you_ need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself." "Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never was a part of _my_ character." "Nor do I think it a part of Marianne s," said Elinor; "I should hardly call her a lively girl she is very earnest, very eager in all she does sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation but she is not often really merry." "I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl." "I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." "But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"<\|quote\|>"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,"</\|quote\|>said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!" "Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward started "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull. CHAPTER XVIII. Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It	Sense And Sensibility
"At present?"	Winterbourne	me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said	t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed	in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t	at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight." "I don t believe it!" said Daisy. "Well!"	here, is very well worth seeing." "Well, if Daisy feels up to it--" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. "It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn t undertake." "Oh, I think she ll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?" Daisy s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight." "I don t believe it!" said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he	air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. Miller rejoined. "I have never been to that castle." "It is a pity you shouldn t go," said Winterbourne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition. And yet he was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter. "We ve been thinking ever so much about going," she pursued; "but it seems as if we couldn t. Of course Daisy--she wants to go round. But there s a lady here--I don t know her name--she says she shouldn t think we d want to go to see castles HERE; she should think we d want to wait till we got to Italy. It seems as if there would be so many there," continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. "Of course we only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in England," she presently added. "Ah yes! in England there are beautiful castles," said Winterbourne. "But Chillon here, is very well worth seeing." "Well, if Daisy feels up to it--" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. "It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn t undertake." "Oh, I think she ll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?" Daisy s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight." "I don t believe it!" said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select one of them." Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little, light laugh. "I like a gentleman to be formal!" she declared. "I assure you it s a formal offer." "I was bound I would make you say something," Daisy went on. "You see, it s not very difficult," said Winterbourne. "But I am afraid you are chaffing me." "I think not, sir," remarked Mrs. Miller very gently. "Do, then, let me give you a row," he said to the young girl. "It s quite lovely, the way you say that!" cried Daisy. "It will be still more lovely to do it." "Yes, it would be lovely!" said Daisy. But she made no movement to accompany him; she only stood there laughing. "I should think you had better find out what time it is," interposed her mother. "It is eleven o clock, madam," said a voice, with a foreign accent, out of the neighboring darkness; and Winterbourne, turning, perceived the florid personage who was in attendance	no means with that harshness of accent which her choice of words may imply. "I don t know," said her mother, turning toward the lake again. "I shouldn t think you d want that shawl!" Daisy exclaimed. "Well I do!" her mother answered with a little laugh. "Did you get Randolph to go to bed?" asked the young girl. "No; I couldn t induce him," said Mrs. Miller very gently. "He wants to talk to the waiter. He likes to talk to that waiter." "I was telling Mr. Winterbourne," the young girl went on; and to the young man s ear her tone might have indicated that she had been uttering his name all her life. "Oh, yes!" said Winterbourne; "I have the pleasure of knowing your son." Randolph s mamma was silent; she turned her attention to the lake. But at last she spoke. "Well, I don t see how he lives!" "Anyhow, it isn t so bad as it was at Dover," said Daisy Miller. "And what occurred at Dover?" Winterbourne asked. "He wouldn t go to bed at all. I guess he sat up all night in the public parlor. He wasn t in bed at twelve o clock: I know that." "It was half-past twelve," declared Mrs. Miller with mild emphasis. "Does he sleep much during the day?" Winterbourne demanded. "I guess he doesn t sleep much," Daisy rejoined. "I wish he would!" said her mother. "It seems as if he couldn t." "I think he s real tiresome," Daisy pursued. Then, for some moments, there was silence. "Well, Daisy Miller," said the elder lady, presently, "I shouldn t think you d want to talk against your own brother!" "Well, he IS tiresome, Mother," said Daisy, quite without the asperity of a retort. "He s only nine," urged Mrs. Miller. "Well, he wouldn t go to that castle," said the young girl. "I m going there with Mr. Winterbourne." To this announcement, very placidly made, Daisy s mamma offered no response. Winterbourne took for granted that she deeply disapproved of the projected excursion; but he said to himself that she was a simple, easily managed person, and that a few deferential protestations would take the edge from her displeasure. "Yes," he began; "your daughter has kindly allowed me the honor of being her guide." Mrs. Miller s wandering eyes attached themselves, with a sort of appealing air, to Daisy, who, however, strolled a few steps farther, gently humming to herself. "I presume you will go in the cars," said her mother. "Yes, or in the boat," said Winterbourne. "Well, of course, I don t know," Mrs. Miller rejoined. "I have never been to that castle." "It is a pity you shouldn t go," said Winterbourne, beginning to feel reassured as to her opposition. And yet he was quite prepared to find that, as a matter of course, she meant to accompany her daughter. "We ve been thinking ever so much about going," she pursued; "but it seems as if we couldn t. Of course Daisy--she wants to go round. But there s a lady here--I don t know her name--she says she shouldn t think we d want to go to see castles HERE; she should think we d want to wait till we got to Italy. It seems as if there would be so many there," continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. "Of course we only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in England," she presently added. "Ah yes! in England there are beautiful castles," said Winterbourne. "But Chillon here, is very well worth seeing." "Well, if Daisy feels up to it--" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. "It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn t undertake." "Oh, I think she ll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?" Daisy s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight." "I don t believe it!" said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go and select one of them." Daisy stood there smiling; she threw back her head and gave a little, light laugh. "I like a gentleman to be formal!" she declared. "I assure you it s a formal offer." "I was bound I would make you say something," Daisy went on. "You see, it s not very difficult," said Winterbourne. "But I am afraid you are chaffing me." "I think not, sir," remarked Mrs. Miller very gently. "Do, then, let me give you a row," he said to the young girl. "It s quite lovely, the way you say that!" cried Daisy. "It will be still more lovely to do it." "Yes, it would be lovely!" said Daisy. But she made no movement to accompany him; she only stood there laughing. "I should think you had better find out what time it is," interposed her mother. "It is eleven o clock, madam," said a voice, with a foreign accent, out of the neighboring darkness; and Winterbourne, turning, perceived the florid personage who was in attendance upon the two ladies. He had apparently just approached. "Oh, Eugenio," said Daisy, "I am going out in a boat!" Eugenio bowed. "At eleven o clock, mademoiselle?" "I am going with Mr. Winterbourne--this very minute." "Do tell her she can t," said Mrs. Miller to the courier. "I think you had better not go out in a boat, mademoiselle," Eugenio declared. Winterbourne wished to Heaven this pretty girl were not so familiar with her courier; but he said nothing. "I suppose you don t think it s proper!" Daisy exclaimed. "Eugenio doesn t think anything s proper." "I am at your service," said Winterbourne. "Does mademoiselle propose to go alone?" asked Eugenio of Mrs. Miller. "Oh, no; with this gentleman!" answered Daisy s mamma. The courier looked for a moment at Winterbourne--the latter thought he was smiling--and then, solemnly, with a bow, "As mademoiselle pleases!" he said. "Oh, I hoped you would make a fuss!" said Daisy. "I don t care to go now." "I myself shall make a fuss if you don t go," said Winterbourne. "That s all I want--a little fuss!" And the young girl began to laugh again. "Mr. Randolph has gone to bed!" the courier announced frigidly. "Oh, Daisy; now we can go!" said Mrs. Miller. Daisy turned away from Winterbourne, looking at him, smiling and fanning herself. "Good night," she said; "I hope you are disappointed, or disgusted, or something!" He looked at her, taking the hand she offered him. "I am puzzled," he answered. "Well, I hope it won t keep you awake!" she said very smartly; and, under the escort of the privileged Eugenio, the two ladies passed toward the house. Winterbourne stood looking after them; he was indeed puzzled. He lingered beside the lake for a quarter of an hour, turning over the mystery of the young girl s sudden familiarities and caprices. But the only very definite conclusion he came to was that he should enjoy deucedly "going off" with her somewhere. Two days afterward he went off with her to the Castle of Chillon. He waited for her in the large hall of the hotel, where the couriers, the servants, the foreign tourists, were lounging about and staring. It was not the place he should have chosen, but she had appointed it. She came tripping downstairs, buttoning her long gloves, squeezing her folded parasol against her pretty figure, dressed	be so many there," continued Mrs. Miller with an air of increasing confidence. "Of course we only want to see the principal ones. We visited several in England," she presently added. "Ah yes! in England there are beautiful castles," said Winterbourne. "But Chillon here, is very well worth seeing." "Well, if Daisy feels up to it--" said Mrs. Miller, in a tone impregnated with a sense of the magnitude of the enterprise. "It seems as if there was nothing she wouldn t undertake." "Oh, I think she ll enjoy it!" Winterbourne declared. And he desired more and more to make it a certainty that he was to have the privilege of a tete-a-tete with the young lady, who was still strolling along in front of them, softly vocalizing. "You are not disposed, madam," he inquired, "to undertake it yourself?" Daisy s mother looked at him an instant askance, and then walked forward in silence. Then--" "I guess she had better go alone," she said simply. Winterbourne observed to himself that this was a very different type of maternity from that of the vigilant matrons who massed themselves in the forefront of social intercourse in the dark old city at the other end of the lake. But his meditations were interrupted by hearing his name very distinctly pronounced by Mrs. Miller s unprotected daughter. "Mr. Winterbourne!" murmured Daisy. "Mademoiselle!" said the young man. "Don t you want to take me out in a boat?"<\|quote\|>"At present?"</\|quote\|>he asked. "Of course!" said Daisy. "Well, Annie Miller!" exclaimed her mother. "I beg you, madam, to let her go," said Winterbourne ardently; for he had never yet enjoyed the sensation of guiding through the summer starlight a skiff freighted with a fresh and beautiful young girl. "I shouldn t think she d want to," said her mother. "I should think she d rather go indoors." "I m sure Mr. Winterbourne wants to take me," Daisy declared. "He s so awfully devoted!" "I will row you over to Chillon in the starlight." "I don t believe it!" said Daisy. "Well!" ejaculated the elder lady again. "You haven t spoken to me for half an hour," her daughter went on. "I have been having some very pleasant conversation with your mother," said Winterbourne. "Well, I want you to take me out in a boat!" Daisy repeated. They had all stopped, and she had turned round and was looking at Winterbourne. Her face wore a charming smile, her pretty eyes were gleaming, she was swinging her great fan about. No; it s impossible to be prettier than that, thought Winterbourne. "There are half a dozen boats moored at that landing place," he said, pointing to certain steps which descended from the garden to the lake. "If you will do me the honor to accept my arm, we will go	Daisy Miller
said Brett.	No speaker	to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for	much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the	people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said	to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She	damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle	at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two	"I say, he did hurt Pedro Romero," Brett said. "He hurt him most badly." "How is he?" "He'll be all right. He won't go out of the room." "Does he look badly?" "Very. He was really hurt. I told him I wanted to pop out and see you chaps for a minute." "Is he going to fight?" "Rather. I'm going with you, if you don't mind." "How's your boy friend?" Mike asked. He had not listened to anything that Brett had said. "Brett's got a bull-fighter," he said. "She had a Jew named Cohn, but he turned out badly." Brett stood up. "I am not going to listen to that sort of rot from you, Michael." "How's your boy friend?" "Damned well," Brett said. "Watch him this afternoon." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "A beautiful, bloody bull-fighter." "Would you mind walking over with me? I want to talk to you, Jake." "Tell him all about your bull-fighter," Mike said. "Oh, to hell with your bull-fighter!" He tipped the table so that all the beers and the dish of shrimps went over in a crash. "Come on," Brett said. "Let's get out of this." In the crowd crossing the square I said: "How is it?" "I'm not going to see him after lunch until the fight. His people come in and dress him. They're very angry about me, he says." Brett was radiant. She was happy. The sun was out and the day was bright. "I feel altogether changed," Brett said. "You've no idea, Jake." "Anything you want me to do?" "No, just go to the fight with me." "We'll see you at lunch?" "No. I'm eating with him." We were standing under the arcade at the door of the hotel. They were carrying tables out and setting them up under the arcade. "Want to take a turn out to the park?" Brett asked. "I don't want to go up yet. I fancy he's sleeping." We walked along past the theatre and out of the square and along through the barracks of the fair, moving with the crowd between the lines of booths. We came out on a cross-street that led to the Paseo de Sarasate. We could see the crowd walking there, all the fashionably dressed people. They were making the turn at the upper end of the park. "Don't let's go there," Brett said. "I don't want staring at just now." We stood in the sunlight. It was hot and good after the rain and the clouds from the sea. "I hope the wind goes down," Brett said. "It's very bad for him." "So do I." "He says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to the caf and watched the fiesta come to the boiling-point. Brett came over soon after lunch. She said she had looked in the room and that Mike was asleep. When the fiesta boiled over and toward the bull-ring we went with the crowd. Brett sat at the ringside between Bill and me. Directly below us was the callejon, the passageway between the stands and the red fence of the barrera. Behind us the concrete stands filled solidly. Out in front, beyond the red fence, the sand of the ring was smooth-rolled and yellow. It looked a little heavy from the rain, but it was dry in the sun and firm and smooth. The sword-handlers and bull-ring servants came down the callejon carrying on their shoulders the wicker baskets of fighting capes and muletas. They were bloodstained and compactly folded and packed in the baskets. The sword-handlers opened the heavy leather sword-cases so the red wrapped hilts of the sheaf of swords showed as the leather case leaned against the fence. They unfolded the dark-stained red flannel of the muletas and fixed batons in them to spread the stuff and give the matador something to hold. Brett watched it all. She was absorbed in the professional details. "He's his name stencilled on all the capes and muletas," she said. "Why do they call them muletas?" "I don't know." "I wonder if they ever launder them." "I don't think so. It might spoil the color." "The blood must stiffen them," Bill said. "Funny," Brett said. "How one doesn't mind the blood." Below in the narrow passage of the callejon the sword-handlers arranged everything. All the seats were full. Above, all the boxes were full. There was not an empty seat except in the President's box. When he came in the fight would start. Across the smooth sand, in the high doorway that led into the corrals, the bull-fighters were standing, their arms furled in their capes, talking, waiting for the signal to march in across the arena.	says the bulls are all right." "They're good." "Is that San Fermin's?" Brett looked at the yellow wall of the chapel. "Yes. Where the show started on Sunday." "Let's go in. Do you mind? I'd rather like to pray a little for him or something." We went in through the heavy leather door that moved very lightly. It was dark inside. Many people were praying. You saw them as your eyes adjusted themselves to the half-light. We knelt at one of the long wooden benches. After a little I felt Brett stiffen beside me, and saw she was looking straight ahead. "Come on," she whispered throatily. "Let's get out of here. Makes me damned nervous." Outside in the hot brightness of the street Brett looked up at the tree-tops in the wind. The praying had not been much of a success. "Don't know why I get so nervy in church," Brett said. "Never does me any good." We walked along. "I'm damned bad for a religious atmosphere," Brett said. "I've the wrong type of face." "You know," Brett said, "I'm not worried about him at all. I just feel happy about him." "Good." "I wish the wind would drop, though." "It's liable to go down by five o'clock." "Let's hope." "You might pray," I laughed. "Never does me any good. I've never gotten anything I prayed for. Have you?" "Oh, yes." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Maybe it works for some people, though. You don't look very religious, Jake." "I'm pretty religious." "Oh, rot," said Brett. "Don't start proselyting to-day. To-day's going to be bad enough as it is." It was the first time I had seen her in the old happy, careless way since before she went off with Cohn. We were back again in front of the hotel. All the tables were set now, and already several were filled with people eating. "Do look after Mike," Brett said. "Don't let him get too bad." "Your frients haff gone up-stairs," the German ma tre d'h tel said in English. He was a continual eavesdropper. Brett turned to him: "Thank you, so much. Have you anything else to say?" "No, _ma'am_." "Good,"<\|quote\|>said Brett.</\|quote\|>"Save us a table for three," I said to the German. He smiled his dirty little pink-and-white smile. "Iss madam eating here?" "No," Brett said. "Den I think a tabul for two will be enuff." "Don't talk to him," Brett said. "Mike must have been in bad shape," she said on the stairs. We passed Montoya on the stairs. He bowed and did not smile. "I'll see you at the caf ," Brett said. "Thank you, so much, Jake." We had stopped at the floor our rooms were on. She went straight down the hall and into Romero's room. She did not knock. She simply opened the door, went in, and closed it behind her. I stood in front of the door of Mike's room and knocked. There was no answer. I tried the knob and it opened. Inside the room was in great disorder. All the bags were opened and clothing was strewn around. There were empty bottles beside the bed. Mike lay on the bed looking like a death mask of himself. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "Hello, Jake," he said very slowly. "I'm getting a lit tle sleep. I've want ed a lit tle sleep for a long time." "Let me cover you over." "No. I'm quite warm." "Don't go. I have n't got ten to sleep yet." "You'll sleep, Mike. Don't worry, boy." "Brett's got a bull-fighter," Mike said. "But her Jew has gone away." He turned his head and looked at me. "Damned good thing, what?" "Yes. Now go to sleep, Mike. You ought to get some sleep." "I'm just start ing. I'm go ing to get a lit tle sleep." He shut his eyes. I went out of the room and turned the door to quietly. Bill was in my room reading the paper. "See Mike?" "Yes." "Let's go and eat." "I won't eat down-stairs with that German head waiter. He was damned snotty when I was getting Mike up-stairs." "He was snotty to us, too." "Let's go out and eat in the town." We went down the stairs. On the stairs we passed a girl coming up with a covered tray. "There goes Brett's lunch," Bill said. "And the kid's," I said. Outside on the terrace under the arcade the German head waiter came up. His red cheeks were shiny. He was being polite. "I haff a tabul for two for you gentlemen," he said. "Go sit at it," Bill said. We went on out across the street. We ate at a restaurant in a side street off the square. They were all men eating in the restaurant. It was full of smoke and drinking and singing. The food was good and so was the wine. We did not talk much. Afterward we went to	The Sun Also Rises
cried Charles,	No speaker	her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done	Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name,	give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth,	Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any	this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested-- "Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found." Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain Benwick had been	catching hold of her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them. "Is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone. "Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, "for heaven's sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them." Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony-- "Oh God! her father and mother!" "A surgeon!" said Anne. He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only-- "True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested-- "Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found." Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked as Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was to be done. She must be taken to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon's arrival there. They would not listen to scruples: he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while Louisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them. Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer. The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror,	to their door, and then return and set off themselves. By all their calculations there was just time for this; but as they drew near the Cobb, there was such a general wish to walk along it once more, all were so inclined, and Louisa soon grew so determined, that the difference of a quarter of an hour, it was found, would be no difference at all; so with all the kind leave-taking, and all the kind interchange of invitations and promises which may be imagined, they parted from Captain and Mrs Harville at their own door, and still accompanied by Captain Benwick, who seemed to cling to them to the last, proceeded to make the proper adieus to the Cobb. Anne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her. Lord Byron's "dark blue seas" could not fail of being brought forward by their present view, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention was possible. It was soon drawn, perforce another way. There was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb pleasant for the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and all were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight, excepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth. In all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the sensation was delightful to her. The hardness of the pavement for her feet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however. She was safely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said, "I am determined I will:" he put out his hands; she was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless! There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death. The horror of the moment to all who stood around! Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence. "She is dead! she is dead!" screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them. "Is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone. "Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, "for heaven's sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them." Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony-- "Oh God! her father and mother!" "A surgeon!" said Anne. He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only-- "True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested-- "Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found." Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked as Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was to be done. She must be taken to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon's arrival there. They would not listen to scruples: he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while Louisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them. Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer. The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully. That he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a few hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may be conceived. The tone, the look, with which "Thank God!" was uttered by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight of him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded arms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of his soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them. Louisa's limbs had escaped. There was no injury but to the head. It now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be done, as to their general situation. They were now able to speak to each other and consult. That Louisa must remain where she was, however distressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such trouble, did not admit a doubt. Her removal was impossible. The Harvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all gratitude. They had looked forward and arranged everything before the others began to reflect. Captain Benwick must give up his room to them, and get another bed elsewhere; and the whole was settled. They were only concerned that the house could accommodate no more; and yet perhaps, by "putting the children away in the maid's room, or swinging a cot somewhere," they could hardly bear to think of not finding room for two or three besides, supposing they might wish to stay; though, with regard to any attendance on Miss Musgrove, there need not be the least uneasiness in leaving her to Mrs Harville's care entirely. Mrs Harville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid, who had lived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just such another. Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by day or night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of feeling irresistible. Charles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the	instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said, "I am determined I will:" he put out his hands; she was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless! There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death. The horror of the moment to all who stood around! Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence. "She is dead! she is dead!" screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them. "Is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone. "Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, "for heaven's sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them." Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony-- "Oh God! her father and mother!" "A surgeon!" said Anne. He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only-- "True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested-- "Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found." Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne,"<\|quote\|>cried Charles,</\|quote\|>"What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked as Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was to be done. She must be taken to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon's arrival there. They would not listen to scruples: he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while Louisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them. Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer. The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully. That he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a few hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may be conceived. The tone, the look, with which "Thank God!" was uttered by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the	Persuasion
asked the other.	No speaker	known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so	him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the	a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not	I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the	about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?"	dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the	ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her, scores of times." Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait? "Not long, mistress," replied the second woman, looking up into her face. "We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He'll be here soon enough for us all." "Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!" said the matron sternly. "You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?" "Often," answered the first woman. "But will never be again," added the second one; "that is, she'll never wake again but once and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!" "Long or short," said the matron, snappishly, "she won't find me here when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won't that's more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!" She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them. "Who's that?" she cried, in a hollow voice. "Hush, hush!" said one of the women, stooping over her. "Lie down, lie down!" "I'll never lie down again alive!" said the woman, struggling. "I _will_ tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear." She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners. "Turn them away," said the woman, drowsily; "make haste! make haste!" The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves. "Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company. Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be "blowed," or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days. "That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. "I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em." Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that	effort to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room in this very bed I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think what was the year again!" "Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?" "Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, "what about her? what about I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head "I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!" "Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help. "_It_!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!" "Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. "Go on, go on yes what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?" "She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman with a groan, "and trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!" "Known what?"<\|quote\|>asked the other.</\|quote\|>"Speak!" "The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?" "No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too late!" "The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; "the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named." And oh, kind Heaven!' "she said, folding her thin hands together," whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!'" "The boy's name?" demanded the matron. "They _called_ him Oliver," replied the woman, feebly. "The gold I stole was" "Yes, yes what?" cried the other. She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed. "Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened. "And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away. The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body. CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old den the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars. At a	Oliver Twist
“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”	Grace	‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you	valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in	to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of	I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as	it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her	of its danger.” Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say” --the young man saw it all-- “he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious integrity; but only to push it away. “Well, I don’t know whether the best lovers are, or ever were, the best buyers--but I feel to-day that they’re the best keepers.” The breath of his emphasis blew, as her eyes showed, on the girl’s dimmer fire. “It’s as if it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her another motion. She indicated the small landscape that Mr. Bender had, by Lady Sandgate’s report, rapidly studied and denounced. “For what do you take that little picture?” Hugh Crimble went over and looked. “Why, don’t you know? It’s a jolly little Vandermeer of Delft.” “It’s not a base imitation?” He looked again, but appeared at a loss. “An imitation of Vandermeer?” “Mr. Bender thinks of Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was	meant he had played some trick!” “I wish he had--he could then have been collared.” “Well,” Lady Grace peacefully smiled, “it’s no use his offering _us_ eight thousand--or eighteen or even eighty!” Hugh Crimble stared as at the odd superfluity of this reassurance, almost crude on exquisite lips and contradicting an imputation no one would have indecently made. “Gracious goodness, I hope not! The man surely doesn’t _suppose_ you’d traffic.” She might, while she still smiled at him, have been fairly enjoying the friendly horror she produced. “I don’t quite know what he supposes. But people _have_ trafficked; people do; people are trafficking all round.” “Ah,” Hugh Crimble cried, “that’s what deprives me of my rest and, as a lover of our vast and beneficent art-wealth, poisons my waking hours. That art-wealth is at the mercy of a leak there appears no means of stopping.” She had tapped a spring in him, clearly, and the consequent flood might almost at any moment become copious. “Precious things are going out of our distracted country at a quicker rate than the very quickest--a century and more ago--of their ever coming in.” She was sharply struck, but was also unmistakably a person in whom stirred thought soon found connections and relations. “Well, I suppose our art-wealth came in--save for those awkward Elgin Marbles!--mainly by purchase too, didn’t it? We ourselves largely took it away from somewhere, didn’t we? We didn’t _grow_ it all.” “We grew some of the loveliest flowers--and on the whole to-day the most exposed.” He had been pulled up but for an instant. “Great Gainsboroughs and Sir Joshuas and Romneys and Sargents, great Turners and Constables and old Cromes and Brabazons, form, you’ll recognise, a vast garden in themselves. What have we ever for instance more successfully grown than your splendid ‘Duchess of Waterbridge’?” The girl showed herself ready at once to recognise under his eloquence anything he would. “Yes--it’s our Sir Joshua, I believe, that Mr. Bender has proclaimed himself particularly ‘after.’” It brought a cloud to her friend’s face. “Then he’ll be capable of anything.” “Of anything, no doubt, but of making my father capable--! And you haven’t at any rate,” she said, “so much as seen the picture.” “I beg your pardon--I saw it at the Guildhall three years ago; and am almost afraid of getting again, with a fresh sense of its beauty, a livelier sense of its danger.” Lady Grace, however, was so far from fear that she could even afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say” --the young man saw it all-- “he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious integrity; but only to push it away. “Well, I don’t know whether the best lovers are, or ever were, the best buyers--but I feel to-day that they’re the best keepers.” The breath of his emphasis blew, as her eyes showed, on the girl’s dimmer fire. “It’s as if it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her another motion. She indicated the small landscape that Mr. Bender had, by Lady Sandgate’s report, rapidly studied and denounced. “For what do you take that little picture?” Hugh Crimble went over and looked. “Why, don’t you know? It’s a jolly little Vandermeer of Delft.” “It’s not a base imitation?” He looked again, but appeared at a loss. “An imitation of Vandermeer?” “Mr. Bender thinks of Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine. “To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.” Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I	afford pity. “Poor baffled Mr. Bender!” “Oh, rich and confident Mr. Bender!” Crimble cried. “Once given his money, his confidence is a horrid engine in itself--there’s the rub! I dare say” --the young man saw it all-- “he has brought his poisonous cheque.” She gave it her less exasperated wonder. “One has heard of that, but only in the case of some particularly pushing dealer.” “And Mr. Bender, to do him justice, isn’t a particularly pushing dealer?” “No,” Lady Grace judiciously returned; “I think he’s not a dealer at all, but just what you a moment ago spoke of yourself as being.” He gave a glance at his possibly wild recent past. “A fond true lover?” “As we _all_ were in our lucky time--when we rum-aged Italy and Spain.” He appeared to recognise this complication--of Bender’s voracious integrity; but only to push it away. “Well, I don’t know whether the best lovers are, or ever were, the best buyers--but I feel to-day that they’re the best keepers.” The breath of his emphasis blew, as her eyes showed, on the girl’s dimmer fire. “It’s as if it were suddenly in the air that you’ve brought us some light or some help--that you may do something really good for us.” “Do you mean ‘mark down,’ as they say at the shops, all your greatest claims?” His chord of sensibility had trembled all gratefully into derision, and not to seem to swagger he had put his possible virtue at its lowest. This she beautifully showed that she beautifully saw. “I dare say that if you did even that we should have to take it from you.” “Then it may very well be,” he laughed back, “the reason why I feel, under my delightful, wonderful impression, a bit anxious and nervous and afraid.” “That shows,” she returned, “that you suspect us of horrors hiding from justice, and that your natural kindness yet shrinks from handing us over!” Well, clearly, she might put it as she liked--it all came back to his being more charmed. “Heaven knows I’ve wanted a chance at you, but what should you say if, having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?”<\|quote\|>“I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.”</\|quote\|>“Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her another motion. She indicated the small landscape that Mr. Bender had, by Lady Sandgate’s report, rapidly studied and denounced. “For what do you take that little picture?” Hugh Crimble went over and looked. “Why, don’t you know? It’s a jolly little Vandermeer of Delft.” “It’s not a base imitation?” He looked again, but appeared at a loss. “An imitation of Vandermeer?” “Mr. Bender thinks of Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took	The Outcry
"I shan t dare do that,"	Cassandra Otway	what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re	to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are	Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you	forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century. "Who s coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture. "There s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it s at the climax; but to-morrow it ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe." She	very late. "May I sit and watch you?" Cassandra asked, shutting up her book. "I got ready on purpose." "Oh, you re ready, are you?" said Katharine, half turning in the midst of her operations, and looking at Cassandra, who sat, clasping her knees, on the edge of the bed. "There are people dining here," she said, taking in the effect of Cassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, the distinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its long tapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hair rose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century. "Who s coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture. "There s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it s at the climax; but to-morrow it ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe." She spoke disconnectedly, handling brush and comb, and pulling out the little drawers in her dressing-table and leaving them open. Cassandra, sitting on the bed behind her, saw the reflection of her cousin s face in the looking-glass. The face in the looking-glass was serious and intent, apparently occupied with other things besides the straightness of the parting which, however, was being driven as straight as a Roman road through the dark hair. Cassandra was impressed again by Katharine s maturity; and, as she enveloped herself in the blue dress which filled almost the whole of the long looking-glass with blue	the bed. In most houses this shelf is the ledge upon which the last relics of religious belief lodge themselves as if, late at night, in the heart of privacy, people, skeptical by day, find solace in sipping one draught of the old charm for such sorrows or perplexities as may steal from their hiding-places in the dark. But there was no hymn-book here. By their battered covers and enigmatical contents, Cassandra judged them to be old school-books belonging to Uncle Trevor, and piously, though eccentrically, preserved by his daughter. There was no end, she thought, to the unexpectedness of Katharine. She had once had a passion for geometry herself, and, curled upon Katharine s quilt, she became absorbed in trying to remember how far she had forgotten what she once knew. Katharine, coming in a little later, found her deep in this characteristic pursuit. "My dear," Cassandra exclaimed, shaking the book at her cousin, "my whole life s changed from this moment! I must write the man s name down at once, or I shall forget" Whose name, what book, which life was changed Katharine proceeded to ascertain. She began to lay aside her clothes hurriedly, for she was very late. "May I sit and watch you?" Cassandra asked, shutting up her book. "I got ready on purpose." "Oh, you re ready, are you?" said Katharine, half turning in the midst of her operations, and looking at Cassandra, who sat, clasping her knees, on the edge of the bed. "There are people dining here," she said, taking in the effect of Cassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, the distinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its long tapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hair rose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century. "Who s coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture. "There s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it s at the climax; but to-morrow it ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe." She spoke disconnectedly, handling brush and comb, and pulling out the little drawers in her dressing-table and leaving them open. Cassandra, sitting on the bed behind her, saw the reflection of her cousin s face in the looking-glass. The face in the looking-glass was serious and intent, apparently occupied with other things besides the straightness of the parting which, however, was being driven as straight as a Roman road through the dark hair. Cassandra was impressed again by Katharine s maturity; and, as she enveloped herself in the blue dress which filled almost the whole of the long looking-glass with blue light and made it the frame of a picture, holding not only the slightly moving effigy of the beautiful woman, but shapes and colors of objects reflected from the background, Cassandra thought that no sight had ever been quite so romantic. It was all in keeping with the room and the house, and the city round them; for her ears had not yet ceased to notice the hum of distant wheels. They went downstairs rather late, in spite of Katharine s extreme speed in getting ready. To Cassandra s ears the buzz of voices inside the drawing-room was like the tuning up of the instruments of the orchestra. It seemed to her that there were numbers of people in the room, and that they were strangers, and that they were beautiful and dressed with the greatest distinction, although they proved to be mostly her relations, and the distinction of their clothing was confined, in the eyes of an impartial observer, to the white waistcoat which Rodney wore. But they all rose simultaneously, which was by itself impressive, and they all exclaimed, and shook hands, and she was introduced to Mr. Peyton, and the door sprang open, and dinner was announced,	charming companion. The cousins seemed to assemble between them a great range of qualities which are never found united in one person and seldom in half a dozen people. Where Katharine was simple, Cassandra was complex; where Katharine was solid and direct, Cassandra was vague and evasive. In short, they represented very well the manly and the womanly sides of the feminine nature, and, for foundation, there was the profound unity of common blood between them. If Cassandra adored Katharine she was incapable of adoring any one without refreshing her spirit with frequent draughts of raillery and criticism, and Katharine enjoyed her laughter at least as much as her respect. Respect was certainly uppermost in Cassandra s mind at the present moment. Katharine s engagement had appealed to her imagination as the first engagement in a circle of contemporaries is apt to appeal to the imaginations of the others; it was solemn, beautiful, and mysterious; it gave both parties the important air of those who have been initiated into some rite which is still concealed from the rest of the group. For Katharine s sake Cassandra thought William a most distinguished and interesting character, and welcomed first his conversation and then his manuscript as the marks of a friendship which it flattered and delighted her to inspire. Katharine was still out when she arrived at Cheyne Walk. After greeting her uncle and aunt and receiving, as usual, a present of two sovereigns for "cab fares and dissipation" from Uncle Trevor, whose favorite niece she was, she changed her dress and wandered into Katharine s room to await her. What a great looking-glass Katharine had, she thought, and how mature all the arrangements upon the dressing-table were compared to what she was used to at home. Glancing round, she thought that the bills stuck upon a skewer and stood for ornament upon the mantelpiece were astonishingly like Katharine, There wasn t a photograph of William anywhere to be seen. The room, with its combination of luxury and bareness, its silk dressing-gowns and crimson slippers, its shabby carpet and bare walls, had a powerful air of Katharine herself; she stood in the middle of the room and enjoyed the sensation; and then, with a desire to finger what her cousin was in the habit of fingering, Cassandra began to take down the books which stood in a row upon the shelf above the bed. In most houses this shelf is the ledge upon which the last relics of religious belief lodge themselves as if, late at night, in the heart of privacy, people, skeptical by day, find solace in sipping one draught of the old charm for such sorrows or perplexities as may steal from their hiding-places in the dark. But there was no hymn-book here. By their battered covers and enigmatical contents, Cassandra judged them to be old school-books belonging to Uncle Trevor, and piously, though eccentrically, preserved by his daughter. There was no end, she thought, to the unexpectedness of Katharine. She had once had a passion for geometry herself, and, curled upon Katharine s quilt, she became absorbed in trying to remember how far she had forgotten what she once knew. Katharine, coming in a little later, found her deep in this characteristic pursuit. "My dear," Cassandra exclaimed, shaking the book at her cousin, "my whole life s changed from this moment! I must write the man s name down at once, or I shall forget" Whose name, what book, which life was changed Katharine proceeded to ascertain. She began to lay aside her clothes hurriedly, for she was very late. "May I sit and watch you?" Cassandra asked, shutting up her book. "I got ready on purpose." "Oh, you re ready, are you?" said Katharine, half turning in the midst of her operations, and looking at Cassandra, who sat, clasping her knees, on the edge of the bed. "There are people dining here," she said, taking in the effect of Cassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, the distinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its long tapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hair rose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century. "Who s coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture. "There s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it s at the climax; but to-morrow it ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe." She spoke disconnectedly, handling brush and comb, and pulling out the little drawers in her dressing-table and leaving them open. Cassandra, sitting on the bed behind her, saw the reflection of her cousin s face in the looking-glass. The face in the looking-glass was serious and intent, apparently occupied with other things besides the straightness of the parting which, however, was being driven as straight as a Roman road through the dark hair. Cassandra was impressed again by Katharine s maturity; and, as she enveloped herself in the blue dress which filled almost the whole of the long looking-glass with blue light and made it the frame of a picture, holding not only the slightly moving effigy of the beautiful woman, but shapes and colors of objects reflected from the background, Cassandra thought that no sight had ever been quite so romantic. It was all in keeping with the room and the house, and the city round them; for her ears had not yet ceased to notice the hum of distant wheels. They went downstairs rather late, in spite of Katharine s extreme speed in getting ready. To Cassandra s ears the buzz of voices inside the drawing-room was like the tuning up of the instruments of the orchestra. It seemed to her that there were numbers of people in the room, and that they were strangers, and that they were beautiful and dressed with the greatest distinction, although they proved to be mostly her relations, and the distinction of their clothing was confined, in the eyes of an impartial observer, to the white waistcoat which Rodney wore. But they all rose simultaneously, which was by itself impressive, and they all exclaimed, and shook hands, and she was introduced to Mr. Peyton, and the door sprang open, and dinner was announced, and they filed off, William Rodney offering her his slightly bent black arm, as she had secretly hoped he would. In short, had the scene been looked at only through her eyes, it must have been described as one of magical brilliancy. The pattern of the soup-plates, the stiff folds of the napkins, which rose by the side of each plate in the shape of arum lilies, the long sticks of bread tied with pink ribbon, the silver dishes and the sea-colored champagne glasses, with the flakes of gold congealed in their stems all these details, together with a curiously pervasive smell of kid gloves, contributed to her exhilaration, which must be repressed, however, because she was grown up, and the world held no more for her to marvel at. The world held no more for her to marvel at, it is true; but it held other people; and each other person possessed in Cassandra s mind some fragment of what privately she called "reality." It was a gift that they would impart if you asked them for it, and thus no dinner-party could possibly be dull, and little Mr. Peyton on her right and William Rodney on her left were in equal measure endowed with the quality which seemed to her so unmistakable and so precious that the way people neglected to demand it was a constant source of surprise to her. She scarcely knew, indeed, whether she was talking to Mr. Peyton or to William Rodney. But to one who, by degrees, assumed the shape of an elderly man with a mustache, she described how she had arrived in London that very afternoon, and how she had taken a cab and driven through the streets. Mr. Peyton, an editor of fifty years, bowed his bald head repeatedly, with apparent understanding. At least, he understood that she was very young and pretty, and saw that she was excited, though he could not gather at once from her words or remember from his own experience what there was to be excited about. "Were there any buds on the trees?" he asked. "Which line did she travel by?" He was cut short in these amiable inquiries by her desire to know whether he was one of those who read, or one of those who look out of the window? Mr. Peyton was by no means sure which he did. He rather	of William anywhere to be seen. The room, with its combination of luxury and bareness, its silk dressing-gowns and crimson slippers, its shabby carpet and bare walls, had a powerful air of Katharine herself; she stood in the middle of the room and enjoyed the sensation; and then, with a desire to finger what her cousin was in the habit of fingering, Cassandra began to take down the books which stood in a row upon the shelf above the bed. In most houses this shelf is the ledge upon which the last relics of religious belief lodge themselves as if, late at night, in the heart of privacy, people, skeptical by day, find solace in sipping one draught of the old charm for such sorrows or perplexities as may steal from their hiding-places in the dark. But there was no hymn-book here. By their battered covers and enigmatical contents, Cassandra judged them to be old school-books belonging to Uncle Trevor, and piously, though eccentrically, preserved by his daughter. There was no end, she thought, to the unexpectedness of Katharine. She had once had a passion for geometry herself, and, curled upon Katharine s quilt, she became absorbed in trying to remember how far she had forgotten what she once knew. Katharine, coming in a little later, found her deep in this characteristic pursuit. "My dear," Cassandra exclaimed, shaking the book at her cousin, "my whole life s changed from this moment! I must write the man s name down at once, or I shall forget" Whose name, what book, which life was changed Katharine proceeded to ascertain. She began to lay aside her clothes hurriedly, for she was very late. "May I sit and watch you?" Cassandra asked, shutting up her book. "I got ready on purpose." "Oh, you re ready, are you?" said Katharine, half turning in the midst of her operations, and looking at Cassandra, who sat, clasping her knees, on the edge of the bed. "There are people dining here," she said, taking in the effect of Cassandra from a new point of view. After an interval, the distinction, the irregular charm, of the small face with its long tapering nose and its bright oval eyes were very notable. The hair rose up off the forehead rather stiffly, and, given a more careful treatment by hairdressers and dressmakers, the light angular figure might possess a likeness to a French lady of distinction in the eighteenth century. "Who s coming to dinner?" Cassandra asked, anticipating further possibilities of rapture. "There s William, and, I believe, Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Aubrey." "I m so glad William is coming. Did he tell you that he sent me his manuscript? I think it s wonderful I think he s almost good enough for you, Katharine." "You shall sit next to him and tell him what you think of him."<\|quote\|>"I shan t dare do that,"</\|quote\|>Cassandra asserted. "Why? You re not afraid of him, are you?" "A little because he s connected with you." Katharine smiled. "But then, with your well-known fidelity, considering that you re staying here at least a fortnight, you won t have any illusions left about me by the time you go. I give you a week, Cassandra. I shall see my power fading day by day. Now it s at the climax; but to-morrow it ll have begun to fade. What am I to wear, I wonder? Find me a blue dress, Cassandra, over there in the long wardrobe." She spoke disconnectedly, handling brush and comb, and pulling out the little drawers in her dressing-table and leaving them open. Cassandra, sitting on the bed behind her, saw the reflection of her cousin s face in the looking-glass. The face in the looking-glass was serious and intent, apparently occupied with other things besides the straightness of the parting which, however, was being driven as straight as a Roman road through the dark hair. Cassandra was impressed again by Katharine s maturity; and, as she enveloped herself in the blue dress which filled almost the whole of the long looking-glass with blue light and made it the frame of a picture, holding not only the slightly moving effigy of the beautiful woman, but shapes and colors of objects reflected from the background, Cassandra thought that no sight had ever been quite so romantic. It was all in keeping with the room and the house, and the city round them; for her ears had not yet ceased to notice the hum of distant wheels. They went downstairs rather late, in spite of Katharine s extreme speed in getting ready. To Cassandra s ears the buzz of voices inside the drawing-room was like the tuning up of the instruments of the orchestra. It seemed to her that there were numbers of people in the room, and that they were strangers, and that they were beautiful and dressed with the greatest distinction, although they proved to be mostly her relations, and the distinction of their clothing was confined, in the eyes of an impartial observer, to the white waistcoat which Rodney wore. But they all rose simultaneously, which was by itself impressive,	Night And Day
"There she is."	Jake Barnes	is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward	a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street.	had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you."	it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the	well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?"	said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it. "What's the matter, Frances?" "Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me." "How do you mean?" "Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it." "What's the matter?" "He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York." She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially. "I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce." I said nothing. "We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had scenes. It's	help you any, Harvey?" "Yes." "Come on. Let's go and eat." "There's no hurry. Have a drink." "Better eat." "No. When I get like this I don't care whether I eat or not." We had a drink. Harvey added my saucer to his own pile. "Do you know Mencken, Harvey?" "Yes. Why?" "What's he like?" "He's all right. He says some pretty funny things. Last time I had dinner with him we talked about Hoffenheimer." 'The trouble is,' "he said," 'he's a garter snapper.' "That's not bad." "That's not bad." "He's through now," Harvey went on. "He's written about all the things he knows, and now he's on all the things he doesn't know." "I guess he's all right," I said. "I just can't read him." "Oh, nobody reads him now," Harvey said, "except the people that used to read the Alexander Hamilton Institute." "Well," I said. "That was a good thing, too." "Sure," said Harvey. So we sat and thought deeply for a while. "Have another port?" "All right," said Harvey. "There comes Cohn," I said. Robert Cohn was crossing the street. "That moron," said Harvey. Cohn came up to our table. "Hello, you bums," he said. "Hello, Robert," Harvey said. "I was just telling Jake here that you're a moron." "What do you mean?" "Tell us right off. Don't think. What would you rather do if you could do anything you wanted?" Cohn started to consider. "Don't think. Bring it right out." "I don't know," Cohn said. "What's it all about, anyway?" "I mean what would you rather do. What comes into your head first. No matter how silly it is." "I don't know," Cohn said. "I think I'd rather play football again with what I know about handling myself, now." "I misjudged you," Harvey said. "You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development." "You're awfully funny, Harvey," Cohn said. "Some day somebody will push your face in." Harvey Stone laughed. "You think so. They won't, though. Because it wouldn't make any difference to me. I'm not a fighter." "It would make a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto." "No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it. "What's the matter, Frances?" "Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me." "How do you mean?" "Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it." "What's the matter?" "He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York." She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially. "I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce." I said nothing. "We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had scenes. It's so childish. We have dreadful scenes, and he cries and begs me to be reasonable, but he says he just can't do it." "It's rotten luck." "I should say it is rotten luck. I've wasted two years and a half on him now. And I don't know now if any man will ever want to marry me. Two years ago I could have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes. All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and settle down were crazy about me. Now I don't think I could get anybody." "Sure, you could marry anybody." "No, I don't believe it. And I'm fond of him, too. And I'd like to have children. I always thought we'd have children." She looked at me very brightly. "I never liked children much, but I don't want to think I'll never have them. I always thought I'd have them and then like them." "He's got children." "Oh, yes. He's got children, and he's got money, and he's got a rich mother, and he's written a book, and nobody will publish my stuff; nobody at all. It isn't bad, either. And I haven't got any money at all. I could have had alimony, but I got the divorce the quickest way." She looked at me again very brightly. "It isn't right. It's my own fault and it's not, too. I ought to have known better. And when I tell him he just cries and says he can't marry. Why can't he marry? I'd be a good wife. I'm easy to get along with. I leave him alone. It doesn't do any good." "It's a rotten shame." "Yes, it is a rotten shame. But there's no use talking about it, is there? Come on, let's go back to the caf ." "And of course there isn't anything I can do." "No. Just don't let him know I talked to you. I know what he wants." Now for the first time she dropped her bright, terribly cheerful manner. "He wants to go back to New York alone, and be there when his book comes out so when a lot of little chickens like it. That's what he wants." "Maybe they won't like it. I don't think he's that way. Really." "You don't know him like I do, Jake. That's what he wants to do. I know it. I know it. That's why	a difference to you if anybody did it." "No, it wouldn't. That's where you make your big mistake. Because you're not intelligent." "Cut it out about me." "Sure," said Harvey. "It doesn't make any difference to me. You don't mean anything to me." "Come on, Harvey," I said. "Have another porto." "No," he said. "I'm going up the street and eat. See you later, Jake." He walked out and up the street. I watched him crossing the street through the taxis, small, heavy, slowly sure of himself in the traffic. "He always gets me sore," Cohn said. "I can't stand him." "I like him," I said. "I'm fond of him. You don't want to get sore at him." "I know it," Cohn said. "He just gets on my nerves." "Write this afternoon?" "No. I couldn't get it going. It's harder to do than my first book. I'm having a hard time handling it." The sort of healthy conceit that he had when he returned from America early in the spring was gone. Then he had been sure of his work, only with these personal longings for adventure. Now the sureness was gone. Somehow I feel I have not shown Robert Cohn clearly. The reason is that until he fell in love with Brett, I never heard him make one remark that would, in any way, detach him from other people. He was nice to watch on the tennis-court, he had a good body, and he kept it in shape; he handled his cards well at bridge, and he had a funny sort of undergraduate quality about him. If he were in a crowd nothing he said stood out. He wore what used to be called polo shirts at school, and may be called that still, but he was not professionally youthful. I do not believe he thought about his clothes much. Externally he had been formed at Princeton. Internally he had been moulded by the two women who had trained him. He had a nice, boyish sort of cheerfulness that had never been trained out of him, and I probably have not brought it out. He loved to win at tennis. He probably loved to win as much as Lenglen, for instance. On the other hand, he was not angry at being beaten. When he fell in love with Brett his tennis game went all to pieces. People beat him who had never had a chance with him. He was very nice about it. Anyhow, we were sitting on the terrace of the Caf Select, and Harvey Stone had just crossed the street. "Come on up to the Lilas," I said. "I have a date." "What time?" "Frances is coming here at seven-fifteen."<\|quote\|>"There she is."</\|quote\|>Frances Clyne was coming toward us from across the street. She was a very tall girl who walked with a great deal of movement. She waved and smiled. We watched her cross the street. "Hello," she said, "I'm so glad you're here, Jake. I've been wanting to talk to you." "Hello, Frances," said Cohn. He smiled. "Why, hello, Robert. Are you here?" She went on, talking rapidly. "I've had the darndest time. This one" "--shaking her head at Cohn--" "didn't come home for lunch." "I wasn't supposed to." "Oh, I know. But you didn't say anything about it to the cook. Then I had a date myself, and Paula wasn't at her office. I went to the Ritz and waited for her, and she never came, and of course I didn't have enough money to lunch at the Ritz----" "What did you do?" "Oh, went out, of course." She spoke in a sort of imitation joyful manner. "I always keep my appointments. No one keeps theirs, nowadays. I ought to know better. How are you, Jake, anyway?" "Fine." "That was a fine girl you had at the dance, and then went off with that Brett one." "Don't you like her?" Cohn asked. "I think she's perfectly charming. Don't you?" Cohn said nothing. "Look, Jake. I want to talk with you. Would you come over with me to the Dome? You'll stay here, won't you, Robert? Come on, Jake." We crossed the Boulevard Montparnasse and sat down at a table. A boy came up with the _Paris Times_, and I bought one and opened it. "What's the matter, Frances?" "Oh, nothing," she said, "except that he wants to leave me." "How do you mean?" "Oh, he told every one that we were going to be married, and I told my mother and every one, and now he doesn't want to do it." "What's the matter?" "He's decided he hasn't lived enough. I knew it would happen when he went to New York." She looked up, very bright-eyed and trying to talk inconsequentially. "I wouldn't marry him if he doesn't want to. Of course I wouldn't. I wouldn't marry him now for anything. But it does seem to me to be a little late now, after we've waited three years, and I've just gotten my divorce." I said nothing. "We were going to celebrate so, and instead we've just had scenes. It's so childish. We have dreadful scenes, and he cries and begs me to be reasonable, but he says he just can't do it." "It's rotten luck." "I should say it is rotten luck. I've wasted two years and a half on him now. And I don't know now if any man will ever want to marry me. Two years ago I could have married anybody I wanted, down at Cannes. All the old ones that wanted to marry somebody chic and settle down were crazy about me. Now I don't think I could get anybody." "Sure, you could marry anybody." "No, I don't believe it. And I'm fond of him, too. And I'd like to have children. I always thought we'd have children." She looked at me very brightly. "I never liked children much, but I don't want to think I'll never have them. I always thought I'd have them and	The Sun Also Rises
said Mr. Brownlow.	No speaker	must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent	that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such	I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this	you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman	no, no!" returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken to-night!" "The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night." "I will give fifty	gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, _the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!" "No, no, no!" returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken to-night!" "The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night." "I will give fifty more," said Mr. Brownlow, "and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?" "Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard this," replied the doctor, "and mounting his horse sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them." "Fagin," said Mr. Brownlow; "what of him?" "When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time. They're sure of him." "Have you made up your mind?" asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks. "Yes," he replied. "You you will be secret with me?" "I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety." They left the room, and the door was again locked. "What have you done?" asked the doctor in a whisper. "All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl's intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend's inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the	from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance to this picture I have spoken of, struck me with astonishment. Even when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew his history" "Why not?" asked Monks hastily. "Because you know it well." "I!" "Denial to me is vain," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I shall show you that I know more than that." "You you can't prove anything against me," stammered Monks. "I defy you to do it!" "We shall see," returned the old gentleman with a searching glance. "I lost the boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being dead, I knew that you alone could solve the mystery if anybody could, and as when I had last heard of you you were on your own estate in the West Indies whither, as you well know, you retired upon your mother's death to escape the consequences of vicious courses here I made the voyage. You had left it, months before, and were supposed to be in London, but no one could tell where. I returned. Your agents had no clue to your residence. You came and went, they said, as strangely as you had ever done: sometimes for days together and sometimes not for months: keeping to all appearance the same low haunts and mingling with the same infamous herd who had been your associates when a fierce ungovernable boy. I wearied them with new applications. I paced the streets by night and day, but until two hours ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for an instant." "And now you do see me," said Monks, rising boldly, "what then? Fraud and robbery are high-sounding words justified, you think, by a fancied resemblance in some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man's Brother! You don't even know that a child was born of this maudlin pair; you don't even know that." "I _did not_," replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; "but within the last fortnight I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his resemblance to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, _the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!" "No, no, no!" returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken to-night!" "The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night." "I will give fifty more," said Mr. Brownlow, "and proclaim it with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?" "Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard this," replied the doctor, "and mounting his horse sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them." "Fagin," said Mr. Brownlow; "what of him?" "When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by this time. They're sure of him." "Have you made up your mind?" asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks. "Yes," he replied. "You you will be secret with me?" "I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety." They left the room, and the door was again locked. "What have you done?" asked the doctor in a whisper. "All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl's intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend's inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid bare the whole villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening after to-morrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there, a few hours before, but shall require rest: especially the young lady, who _may_ have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered creature. Which way have they taken?" "Drive straight to the office and you will be in time," replied Mr. Losberne. "I will remain here." The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly uncontrollable. CHAPTER L. THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built low-roofed houses, there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass of its inhabitants. To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the shops; the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the salesman's door, and stream from the house-parapet and windows. Jostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged children, and the raff and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, and deafened by the clash of ponderous waggons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every corner. Arriving, at length, in streets remoter and less-frequented than those through which he has passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes, chimneys half crushed half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron bars that time and dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign of desolation and neglect. In such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, stands Jacob's Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six	his birth. There existed proofs proofs long suppressed of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, _the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.' Unworthy son, coward, liar, you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you, you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an index even to your mind you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!" "No, no, no!" returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated charges. "Every word!" cried the gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a party." "No, no," interposed Monks. "I I knew nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel." "It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Will you disclose the whole?" "Yes, I will." "Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before witnesses?" "That I promise too." "Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of attesting it?" "If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks. "You must do more than that,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Brownlow.</\|quote\|>"Make restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more." While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on this proposal and the possibilities of evading it: torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other: the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation. "The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken to-night!" "The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will be, there, under cover of the darkness. Spies are hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night." "I will give fifty more," said	Oliver Twist
opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.	No speaker	anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those	ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were	an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety.	hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m	his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She	the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going	but exhale a groan of reluctant accommodation as if he wondered at the point she made of it. It enlightened him indeed perhaps a little that she went on while Gotch did her bidding. “Does the kind of relation you’d be condemned to with Mr. Crimble let you down, down, down, as you say, more than the relation you’ve been having with Mr. Bender?” Lord Theign had for it the most uninforming of stares. “Do you mean don’t I hate ‘em equally both?” She cut his further reply short, however, by a “Hush!” of warning--Mr. Bender was there and his introducer had left them. Lord Theign, full of his purpose of departure, sacrificed hereupon little to ceremony. “I’ve but a moment, to my regret, to give you, Mr. Bender, and if you’ve been unavoidably detained, as you great bustling people are so apt to be, it will perhaps still be soon enough for your comfort to hear from me that I’ve just given order to close our exhibition. From the present hour on, sir” --he put it with the firmness required to settle the futility of an appeal. Mr. Bender’s large surprise lost itself, however, promptly enough, in Mr. Bender’s larger ease. “Why, do you really mean it, Lord Theign?--removing already from view a work that gives innocent gratification to thousands?” “Well,” said his lordship curtly, “if thousands have seen it I’ve done what I wanted, and if they’ve been gratified I’m content--and invite _you_ to be.” Mr. Bender showed more keenness for this richer implication. “In other words it’s I who may remove the picture?” “Well--if you’ll take it on my estimate.” “But what, Lord Theign, all this time,” Mr. Bender almost pathetically pleaded, “_is_ your estimate?” The parting guest had another pause, which prolonged itself, after he had reached the door, in a deep solicitation of their hostess’s conscious eyes. This brief passage apparently inspired his answer. “Lady Sandgate will tell you.” The door closed behind him. The charming woman smiled then at her other friend, whose comprehensive presence appeared now to demand of her some account of these strange proceedings. “He means that your own valuation is much too shockingly high.” “But how can I know _how_ much unless I find out what he’ll take?” The great collector’s spirit had, in spite of its volume, clearly not reached its limit of expansion. “Is he crazily waiting for the thing to be proved _not_ what Mr. Crimble claims?” “No, he’s waiting for nothing--since he holds that claim demolished by Pappendick’s tremendous negative, which you wrote to tell him of.” Vast, undeveloped and suddenly grave, Mr. Bender’s countenance showed like a barren tract under a black cloud. “I wrote to _report_, fair and square, on Pap-pendick, but to tell him I’d take the picture just the same, negative and all.” “Ah, but take it in that way not for what it is but for what it isn’t.” “We know nothing about what it ‘isn’t,’” said Mr. Bender, “after all that has happened--we’ve only learned a little better every day what it is.” “You mean,” his companion asked, “the biggest bone of artistic contention----?” “Yes,” --he took it from her-- “the biggest that has been thrown into the arena for quite a while. I guess I can do with it for _that_.” Lady Sandgate, on this, after a moment, renewed her personal advance; it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed you my word for, thrown in, I’ll resign myself to whatever you may be disposed--characteristically!--to give for this one.” “If it’s a question of resignation,” said Mr. Bender, “you mean of course what I may be disposed--characteristically!--_not_ to give.” She played on him for an instant all her radiance. “Yes then, you dear sharp rich thing!” “And you take in, I assume,” he pursued, “that I’m just going to lean on you, for what I want, with the full weight of a determined man.” “Well,” she laughed, “I promise you I’ll thoroughly obey the direction of your pressure.” “All right then!” And he stopped before her, in his unrest, monumentally pledged, yet still more massively immeasurable. “How’ll you have it?” She bristled as with all the possible beautiful choices; then she shed her selection as a heaving fruit-tree might have dropped some round ripeness. It was for her friend to pick up his plum and his privilege. “Will you write a cheque?” “Yes, if you want it right away.” To which, however, he added, clapping vainly a breast-pocket: “But my cheque-book’s down in my car.” “At the door?” She scarce required his assent to touch a bell. “I can easily send for it.” And she threw off while they waited: “It’s so sweet your ‘flying round’ with your cheque-book!” He put it with promptitude another way. “It flies round pretty well with _Mr_----!” “Mr. Bender’s cheque-book--in his car,” she went on to Gotch, who had answered her summons. The owner of the interesting object further instructed him: “You’ll find in the pocket a large red morocco case.” “Very good, sir,” said Gotch--but with another word for his mistress. “Lord John would like to know--” “Lord John’s there?” she interrupted. Gotch turned to the open door. “Here he is, my lady.” She accommodated herself at once, under Mr. Bender’s eye, to the complication involved in his lordship’s presence. “It’s he who went round to Bond Street.” Mr. Bender stared, but saw the connection. “To stop the show?” And then as the young man was already there: “You’ve stopped the show?” “It’s ‘on’ more than ever!” Lord John responded while Gotch retired: a hurried, flurried, breathless Lord John, strikingly different from the backward messenger she had lately seen despatched. “But Theign should be here!” --he addressed her excitedly. “I announce you a call from the Prince.” “The Prince?” --she gasped as for the burden of the honour. “He follows you?” Mr. Bender, with an eagerness and a candour there was no mistaking, recognised on behalf of his ampler action a world of associational advantage and auspicious possibility. “Is the Prince _after_ the thing?” Lord John remained, in spite of this challenge, conscious of nothing but his message. “He was there with Mackintosh--to see and admire the picture; which he thinks,	it was as if she had now made sure of the soundness of her main bridge. “Well, if it’s the biggest bone I won’t touch it; I’ll leave it to be mauled by my betters. But since his lordship has asked me to name a price, dear Mr. Bender, I’ll name one--and as you prefer big prices I’ll try to make it suit you. Only it won’t be for the portrait of a person nobody is agreed about. The whole world is agreed, you know, about my great-grandmother.” “Oh, shucks, Lady Sandgate!” --and her visitor turned from her with the hunch of overcharged shoulders. But she apparently felt that she held him, or at least that even if such a conviction might be fatuous she must now put it to the touch. “You’ve been delivered into my hands--too charmingly; and you won’t really pretend that you don’t recognise that and in fact rather like it.” He faced about to her again as to a case of coolness unparalleled--though indeed with a quick lapse of real interest in the question of whether he had been artfully practised upon; an indifference to bad debts or peculation like that of some huge hotel or other business involving a margin for waste. He could afford, he could work waste too, clearly--and what was it, that term, you might have felt him ask, but a mean measure, anyway? quite as the “artful,”<\|quote\|>opposed to his larger game, would be the hiding and pouncing of children at play.</\|quote\|>“Do I gather that those uncanny words of his were just meant to put me off?” he inquired. And then as she but boldly and smilingly shrugged, repudiating responsibility, “Look here, Lady Sandgate, ain’t you honestly going to help me?” he pursued. This engaged her sincerity without affecting her gaiety. “Mr. Bender, Mr. Bender, I’ll help you if you’ll help _me!_” “You’ll really get me something from him to go on with?” “I’ll get you something from him to go on with.” “That’s all I ask--to get _that_. Then I can move the way I want. But without it I’m held up.” “You shall have it,” she replied, “if I in turn may look to _you_ for a trifle on account.” “Well,” he dryly gloomed at her, “what do you call a trifle?” “I mean” --she waited but an instant-- “what you would feel as one.” “That won’t do. You haven’t the least idea, Lady Sandgate,” he earnestly said, “_how_ I feel at these foolish times. I’ve never got used to them yet.” “Ah, don’t you understand,” she pressed, “that if I give you an advantage I’m completely at your mercy?” “Well, what mercy,” he groaned, “do you deserve?” She waited a little, brightly composed--then she indicated her inner shrine, the whereabouts of her precious picture. “Go and look at her again and you’ll see.” His protest was large, but so, after a moment, was his compliance--his heavy advance upon the other room, from just within the doorway of which the great Lawrence was serenely visible. Mr. Bender gave it his eyes once more--though after the fashion verily of a man for whom it had now no freshness of a glamour, no shade of a secret; then he came back to his hostess. “Do you call giving me an advantage squeezing me by your sweet modesty for less than I may possibly bear?” “How can I say fairer,” she returned, “than that, with my backing about the other picture, which I’ve passed	The Outcry
"Ever so many thanks."	Margaret	did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby.	very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and	her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages	that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else,	gentleman; I don t love the young--O lud, who s that coming down the stairs? I vow tis my brother. O crimini!" A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. "DEAR MRS. WILCOX," "I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we	ought not to call before she is called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disapproval, and opined that Mrs. Wilcox was keine Dame. "Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret. "Helen, stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish your packing. Why can t the woman leave us alone?" "I don t know what I shall do with Meg," Helen retorted, collapsing upon the stairs. "She s got Wilcox and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don t love the young gentleman; I don t love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?" "Most certainly her love has died," asserted Fraulein Mosebach. "Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not prevent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return the call." Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, who thought her extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg s going to return the call, and I can t. Cos why? Cos I m going to German-eye." "If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren t, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me." "But, Meg, Meg, I don t love the young gentleman; I don t love the young--O lud, who s that coming down the stairs? I vow tis my brother. O crimini!" A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. "DEAR MRS. WILCOX," "I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your family, and, in my sister s case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that our acquaintance, which began so pleasantly, should end." "I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy." "Believe me," "Yours truly," "M. J. SCHLEGEL." Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received the following reply by hand: "DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL," "You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad." "RUTH WILCOX." Margaret s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast. She was on fire with	worried on Mrs. Wilcox s account; she implied that Mrs. Wilcox might reach backward into deep feelings, and be pained by things that never touched the other members of that clan. "I shan t mind if Paul points at our house and says, There lives the girl who tried to catch me. But she might." "If even that worries you, we could arrange something. There s no reason we should be near people who displease us or whom we displease, thanks to our money. We might even go away for a little." "Well, I am going away. Frieda s just asked me to Stettin, and I shan t be back till after the New Year. Will that do? Or must I fly the country altogether? Really, Meg, what has come over you to make such a fuss?" "Oh, I m getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I minded nothing, but really I--I should be bored if you fell in love with the same man twice and" "--she cleared her throat--" "you did go red, you know, when Aunt Juley attacked you this morning. I shouldn t have referred to it otherwise." But Helen s laugh rang true, as she raised a soapy hand to heaven and swore that never, nowhere and nohow, would she again fall in love with any of the Wilcox family, down to its remotest collaterals. CHAPTER VIII The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, which was to develop so quickly and with such strange results, may perhaps have had its beginnings at Speyer, in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at the vulgar, ruddy cathedral, and listened to the talk of her husband and Helen, may have detected in the other and less charming of the sisters a deeper sympathy, a sounder judgment. She was capable of detecting such things. Perhaps it was she who had desired the Miss Schlegels to be invited to Howards End, and Margaret whose presence she had particularly desired. All this is speculation; Mrs. Wilcox has left few clear indications behind her. It is certain that she came to call at Wickham Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen was going with her cousin to Stettin. "Helen!" cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones (she was now in her cousin s confidence)--" "his mother has forgiven you!" And then, remembering that in England the new-comer ought not to call before she is called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disapproval, and opined that Mrs. Wilcox was keine Dame. "Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret. "Helen, stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish your packing. Why can t the woman leave us alone?" "I don t know what I shall do with Meg," Helen retorted, collapsing upon the stairs. "She s got Wilcox and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don t love the young gentleman; I don t love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?" "Most certainly her love has died," asserted Fraulein Mosebach. "Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not prevent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return the call." Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, who thought her extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg s going to return the call, and I can t. Cos why? Cos I m going to German-eye." "If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren t, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me." "But, Meg, Meg, I don t love the young gentleman; I don t love the young--O lud, who s that coming down the stairs? I vow tis my brother. O crimini!" A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. "DEAR MRS. WILCOX," "I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your family, and, in my sister s case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that our acquaintance, which began so pleasantly, should end." "I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy." "Believe me," "Yours truly," "M. J. SCHLEGEL." Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received the following reply by hand: "DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL," "You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad." "RUTH WILCOX." Margaret s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast. She was on fire with shame. Helen had told her that the youth was leaving England, but other things had seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All her absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place arose the certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox. Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste in the mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary, but woe to those who employ it without due need. She flung on a hat and shawl, just like a poor woman, and plunged into the fog, which still continued. Her lips were compressed, the letter remained in her hand, and in this state she crossed the street, entered the marble vestibule of the flats, eluded the concierges, and ran up the stairs till she reached the second floor. She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown straight into Mrs. Wilcox s bedroom. "Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am more, more ashamed and sorry than I can say." Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did not pretend to the contrary. She was sitting up in bed, writing letters on an invalid table that spanned her knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside her. The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the light of a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo round her hands combined to create a strange atmosphere of dissolution. "I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot." "He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa." "I knew--I know. I have been too absurd all through. I am very much ashamed." Mrs. Wilcox did not answer. "I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you will forgive me." "It doesn t matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to have come round so promptly." "It does matter," cried Margaret. "I have been rude to you; and my sister is not even at home, so there was not even that excuse." "Indeed?" "She has just gone to Germany." "She gone as well," murmured the other. "Yes, certainly, it is quite safe--safe, absolutely, now." "You ve been worrying too!" exclaimed Margaret, getting more and more excited, and taking a chair without invitation. "How perfectly extraordinary! I can see that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn t meet him again."	who thought her extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg s going to return the call, and I can t. Cos why? Cos I m going to German-eye." "If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren t, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me." "But, Meg, Meg, I don t love the young gentleman; I don t love the young--O lud, who s that coming down the stairs? I vow tis my brother. O crimini!" A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is still high, and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with laughter, and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young man--he has not been worthy of her." "Yes, I know; thanks very much." "I thought I did right to tell you."<\|quote\|>"Ever so many thanks."</\|quote\|>"What s that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining-room, to eat plums. That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. "DEAR MRS. WILCOX," "I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did not meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your family, and, in my sister s case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts with your son. But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and it is therefore right that our acquaintance, which began so pleasantly, should end." "I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only an instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge, and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy." "Believe me," "Yours truly," "M. J. SCHLEGEL." Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received the following reply by hand: "DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL," "You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that Paul has gone abroad." "RUTH WILCOX." Margaret s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast.	Howards End
"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."	Elinor	"I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said	I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear	tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how	of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think	may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which	there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood s happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it." "I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford." Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted. "You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me." The promise was readily given, and Willoughby s behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness. "Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to	cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain." So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine. She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne. Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover s heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood s happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it." "I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford." Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted. "You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me." The promise was readily given, and Willoughby s behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness. "Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton." He engaged to be with them by four o clock. CHAPTER XV. Mrs. Dashwood s visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home. On their return from the park they found Willoughby s curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs. Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which over-powered Marianne. "Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she entered "is she ill?" "I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill for I am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!" "Disappointment?" "Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you." "To London! and are you going this morning?" "Almost this moment." "This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged; and her business will not detain you from us long I hope." He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth." "And is Mrs. Smith	employ her riches no better." "Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor,<\|quote\|>"that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."</\|quote\|>"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance	Sense And Sensibility
"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"	Dolly	be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has	own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They	news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s	it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?"	lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight	larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich--a relic this of some prehistoric craving--was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?" "Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles s were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathised, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered. "Oh, yes," she cried, "that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-cases." "Why has she done that? How unnecessary!" "Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to." "I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire." "It was far more than an air," said Dolly solemnly. "The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you don t know." "Books!" cried Margaret, moved by	might go on asking such questions indefinitely." One might; but he was only gaining time for a plausible answer. Out it came, and he believed it as soon as it was spoken. "The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. Don t let this go any further." "Certainly not." "I shouldn t like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad bargain. No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor little girl! She was so keen on it all, and wouldn t even wait to make proper inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up--just like all of your sex. Well, no harm s done. She has had her country wedding, and I ve got rid of my goose to some fellows who are starting a preparatory school." "Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy living somewhere." "I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?" Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux. London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilisation which is altering human nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal relations a stress greater than they have ever borne before. Under cosmopolitanism, if it comes, we shall receive no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and mountains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that they once exercised on character must be entrusted to Love alone. May Love be equal to the task! "It is now what?" continued Henry. "Nearly October. Let us camp for the winter at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring." "If possible, something permanent. I can t be as young as I was, for these alterations don t suit me." "But, my dear, which would you rather have--alterations or rheumatism?" "I see your point," said Margaret, getting up. "If Oniton is really damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time. These endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly expensive." "What a practical little woman it is! What s it been reading? Theo--theo--how much?" "Theosophy." So Ducie Street was her first fate--a pleasant enough fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich--a relic this of some prehistoric craving--was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?" "Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles s were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she told Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathised, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the stepmother was urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, and at last the particular grievance was remembered. "Oh, yes," she cried, "that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-cases." "Why has she done that? How unnecessary!" "Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to." "I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to light an occasional fire." "It was far more than an air," said Dolly solemnly. "The floor sounds covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain you don t know." "Books!" cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. "Dolly, are you serious? Has she been touching our books?" "Hasn t she, though! What used to be the hall s full of them. Charles thought for certain you knew of it." "I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss Avery? I must go down about it at once. Some of the books are my brother s, and are quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the cases." "I say she s dotty. She was the one that never got married, you know. Oh, I say, perhaps, she thinks your books are wedding-presents to herself. Old maids are taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us all like poison ever since her frightful dust-up with Evie." "I hadn t heard of that," said Margaret. A visit from Dolly had its compensations. "Didn t you know she gave Evie a present last August, and Evie returned it, and then--oh, goloshes! You never read such a letter as Miss Avery wrote." "But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn t like her to do such a heartless thing." "But the present was so expensive." "Why does that make any difference, Dolly?" "Still, when it costs over five pounds--I didn t see it, but it was a lovely enamel pendant from a Bond Street shop. You can t very well accept that kind of thing from a farm woman. Now, can you?" "You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you were married." "Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff--not worth a halfpenny. Evie s was quite different. You d have to ask any one to the wedding who gave you a pendant like that. Uncle Percy and Albert and father and Charles all said it was quite impossible, and when four men agree, what is a girl to do? Evie didn t want to upset the old thing, so thought a sort of joking letter best, and returned the pendant straight to the shop to save Miss Avery trouble." "But Miss Avery said--" Dolly s eyes grew round. "It was a perfectly awful letter. Charles said it was the letter of a madman. In the end she had the pendant back again from the shop and threw it into the duck-pond." "Did she give any reasons?" "We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and so climb	really damp, it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time. These endless moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly expensive." "What a practical little woman it is! What s it been reading? Theo--theo--how much?" "Theosophy." So Ducie Street was her first fate--a pleasant enough fate. The house, being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to business, and his sandwich--a relic this of some prehistoric craving--was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen s to keep on the boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but being Henry s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to "miss" new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power. CHAPTER XXXII She was looking at plans one day in the following spring--they had finally decided to go down into Sussex and build--when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was announced. "Have you heard the news?" Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. "Charles is so ang--I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, that you don t know." "Why, Dolly!" said Margaret, placidly kissing her. "Here s a surprise! How are the boys and the baby?" Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said--Charles had said--the tax-collector had said--Charles had regretted not saying--and she closed the description with, "But lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst." "It will be very jolly," replied Margaret.<\|quote\|>"Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?"</\|quote\|>"Of course not." "Charles has never seen the plans." "They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor--no, that s rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a picturesque sky-line." "What makes it smell so funny?" said Dolly, after a moment s inspection. She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. "I suppose the paper." "And WHICH way up is it?" "Just the ordinary way up. That s the sky-line and the part that smells strongest is the sky." "Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How s Helen?" "Quite well." "Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it s awfully odd she doesn t." "So it is," said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting rather sore on this point. "Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight months." "But hasn t she any address?" "A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I will look it up for you." "No, don t bother. That s eight months she has been away, surely?" "Exactly. She left just after Evie s wedding. It would be eight months." "Just when baby was born, then?" "Just so." Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles s were not well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought	Howards End
"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"	Jenny Abdul Akbar	where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and	perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five	him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung	club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held	this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at	turned over regularly; Mrs Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room. "What must that man have thought?" said Tony, when he had gone out. (" "Sitting there clucking like a 'en," Albert reported, "and the little fellow lying dead upstairs." ") "We'd better stop." "It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know." She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must be in London by now." Mrs Rattery said, "I'd rather like some whisky." * * * * * Jock had not seen Brenda's flat. It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district. Mrs Beaver deplored the space wasted by the well staircase and empty, paved hall. There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop. A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN. But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I	sooner not play." "You get the dice and sit up here at the table. We've got six hours to get through." She showed him how to throw craps. He said, "I've seen it on the cinema--pullman porters and taxi men." "Of course you have, it's easy... there you see you've won, you take all." Presently Tony said, "I've just thought of something." "Don't you ever take a rest from thinking?" "Suppose the evening papers have got hold of it already. Brenda may see it on a placard, or just pick up a paper casually and there it will be... perhaps with a photograph." "Yes, I thought of that just now, when you were talking about telegraphing." "But it's quite likely, isn't it? They get hold of everything so quickly. What can we do about it?" "There isn't anything we can do. We've just got to wait... Come on, boy, throw up." "I don't want to play any more. I'm worried." "I know you're worried. You don't have to tell me... you aren't going to give up playing just when the luck's running your way?" "I'm sorry... it isn't any good." He walked about the room, first to the window, then to the fireplace. He began to fill his pipe. "At least we can find out whether the evening papers have got it in. We can ring up and ask the hall porter at my club." "That's not going to prevent your wife reading it. We've just got to wait. What was the game you said you knew? Animal something?" "Snap." "I'll buy it." "It's just a child's game. It would be ridiculous with two." "Show me." "Well each of us chooses an animal." "All right, I'm a dog and you're a hen. Now what?" Tony explained. "I'd say it was one of those games that you have to feel pretty good first, before you can enjoy them," said Mrs Rattery. "But I'll try anything." They each took a pack and began dealing. Soon a pair of eights appeared. "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery, scooping in the cards. Another pair, "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery. "You know you aren't putting your heart into this." "Oh," said Tony. "Coop-coop-coop." Presently he said again, "Coop-coop-coop." "Don't be dumb," said Mrs Rattery, "that isn't a pair..." They were still playing when Albert came in to draw the curtains. Tony had only two cards left which he turned over regularly; Mrs Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room. "What must that man have thought?" said Tony, when he had gone out. (" "Sitting there clucking like a 'en," Albert reported, "and the little fellow lying dead upstairs." ") "We'd better stop." "It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know." She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must be in London by now." Mrs Rattery said, "I'd rather like some whisky." * * * * * Jock had not seen Brenda's flat. It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district. Mrs Beaver deplored the space wasted by the well staircase and empty, paved hall. There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop. A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN. But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and see Brenda." "Wait a minute and I'll come too." She had brightened a little when she emerged. "Have you got a car here," she asked, "or shall I ring up a taxi?" * * * * * After tea Mr Tendril called. Tony saw him in his study and was away half an hour. When he returned he went to the tray, which, on Mrs Rattery's instructions, had been left in the library, and poured himself out whisky and ginger ale. Mrs Rattery had resumed her patience. "Bad interview?" she asked, without looking up. "Awful." He drank the whisky quickly and poured out some more. "Bring me one too, will you?" Tony said, "I only wanted to see him about arrangements. He tried to be comforting. It was very painful... after all the last thing one wants to talk about at a time like this is religion." "Some like it," said Mrs Rattery. "Of course," Tony began, after a pause, "when you haven't got children yourself--" "I've got two sons," said Mrs Rattery. "Have you? I'm so sorry. I didn't realize... we know each other so little. How very impertinent of me." "That's all right. People are always surprised. I don't see them often. They're at school somewhere. I took them to the cinema last summer. They're getting quite big. One's going to be good-looking, I think. His father is." "Quarter-past six," said Tony. "He's bound to have told her by now." * * * * * There was a little party at Lady Cockpurse's, Veronica and Daisy and Sybil, Souki de Foucald-Esterhazy, and four or five others, all women. They were there to consult a new fortune-teller called Mrs Northcote. Mrs Beaver had discovered her and for every five guineas that she earned at her introduction Mrs Beaver took a commission of two pounds twelve and sixpence. She told fortunes in a new way, by reading the soles of the feet. They waited their turn impatiently. "What a time she is taking over Daisy." "She is very thorough," said Polly, "and it tickles rather." Presently Daisy emerged. "What was she like?" they asked. "I mustn't tell or it spoils it all," said Daisy. They had dealt cards for	anything." They each took a pack and began dealing. Soon a pair of eights appeared. "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery, scooping in the cards. Another pair, "Bow-wow," said Mrs Rattery. "You know you aren't putting your heart into this." "Oh," said Tony. "Coop-coop-coop." Presently he said again, "Coop-coop-coop." "Don't be dumb," said Mrs Rattery, "that isn't a pair..." They were still playing when Albert came in to draw the curtains. Tony had only two cards left which he turned over regularly; Mrs Rattery was obliged to divide hers, they were too many to hold. They stopped playing when they found that Albert was in the room. "What must that man have thought?" said Tony, when he had gone out. (" "Sitting there clucking like a 'en," Albert reported, "and the little fellow lying dead upstairs." ") "We'd better stop." "It wasn't a very good game. And to think it's the only one you know." She collected the cards and began to deal them into their proper packs. Ambrose and Albert brought in tea. Tony looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. Now that the shutters are up we shan't hear the chimes. Jock must be in London by now." Mrs Rattery said, "I'd rather like some whisky." * * * * * Jock had not seen Brenda's flat. It was in a large, featureless house, typical of the district. Mrs Beaver deplored the space wasted by the well staircase and empty, paved hall. There was no porter; a woman came three mornings a week with bucket and mop. A board painted with the names of the tenants informed Jock that Brenda was IN. But he put little reliance on this information, knowing that Brenda was not one to remember, as she came in and out, to change the indicator. He found her front door on the second floor. After the first flight the staircase changed from marble to a faded carpet that had been there before Mrs Beaver undertook the reconstruction. Jock pressed the bell and heard it ringing just inside the door. Nobody came to open it. It was past five, and he had not expected to find Brenda at home. He had decided on the road up that after trying the flat, he would go to his club and ring up various friends of Brenda's who might know where she was. He rang again, from habit, and waited a little; then turned to go. But at that moment the door next to Brenda's opened and a dark lady in a dress of crimson velvet looked out at him; she wore very large earrings of oriental filigree, set with bosses of opaque, valueless stone. "Are you looking for Lady Brenda Last?" "I am. Is she a friend of yours?" "Oh, _such_ a friend," said Princess Abdul Akbar. "Then perhaps you can tell me where I can find her?"<\|quote\|>"I think she's bound to be at Lady Cockpurse's. I'm just going there myself. Can I give her any message?"</\|quote\|>"I had better come and see her." "Well, wait five minutes and you can go with me. Come inside." The Princess's single room was furnished promiscuously and with truly Eastern disregard of the right properties of things; swords meant to adorn the state robes of a Moorish caid were swung from the picture rail; mats made for prayer were strewn on the divan; the carpet on the floor had been made in Bokhara as a wall covering; while over the dressing table was draped a shawl made in Yokohama for sale to cruise-passengers; an octagonal table from Port Said held a Tibetan Buddha of pale soapstone; six ivory elephants from Bombay stood along the top of the radiator. Other cultures, too, were represented by a set of Lalique bottles and powder boxes, a phallic fetish from Senegal, a Dutch copper bowl, a waste-paper basket made of varnished aquatint, a golliwog presented at the gala dinner of a seaside hotel, a dozen or so framed photographs of the Princess, a garden scene ingeniously constructed in pieces of coloured wood, and a radio set in fumed oak, Tudor style. In so small a room the effect was distracting. The Princess sat at the looking-glass, Jock behind her on the divan. "What's your name?" she asked over her shoulder. He told her. "Oh yes, I've heard them mention you. I was at Hetton the week-end before last... such a quaint old place." "I'd better tell you. There's been a frightful accident there this morning." Jenny Abdul Akbar spun round on the leather stool; her eyes were wide with alarm, her hand pressed to her heart. "Quick," she whispered, "_tell me_. I can't bear it. Is it _death_?" Jock nodded. "Their little boy... kicked by a horse." "_Little Jimmy._" "John." "John... _dead_. It's _too_ horrible." "It wasn't anybody's fault." "Oh yes," said Jenny. "It was. It was _my_ fault. I ought never to have gone there... a terrible curse hangs over me. Wherever I go I bring nothing but sorrow... if only it was _I_ that was dead... I shall never be able to face them again. I feel like a murderess... that brave little life snuffed out." "I say, you know, really, I shouldn't take that line about it." "It isn't the first time it's happened... always, anywhere, I am hunted down... without remorse. O God," said Jenny Abdul Akbar. "What have I done to deserve it?" She rose to leave him; there was nowhere she could go except the bathroom. Jock said, through the door, "Well, I must go along to Polly's and	A Handful Of Dust
answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.	No speaker	right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said	asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid	For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should	wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though	it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his heart. "Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked. "It was dark and rainy then ..." The warmth was glowing now	how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev her hand, and he could see that her heart was beating with excitement; and looking at him intently and curiously, she went on: "How much stouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly, but on the whole you have changed very little." Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there was something lacking in her, or else something superfluous--he could not himself have said exactly what it was, but something prevented him from feeling as before. He did not like her pallor, her new expression, her faint smile, her voice, and soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which had troubled him four years before--and he felt awkward. They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel; she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her to finish. "People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his heart. "Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked. "It was dark and rainy then ..." The warmth was glowing now in his heart, and he longed to talk, to rail at life.... "Ech!" he said with a sigh. "You ask how I am living. How do we live here? Why, not at all. We grow old, we grow stout, we grow slack. Day after day passes; life slips by without colour, without expressions, without thoughts.... In the daytime working for gain, and in the evening the club, the company of card-players, alcoholic, raucous-voiced gentlemen whom I can't endure. What is there nice in it?" "Well, you have work--a noble object in life. You used to be so fond of talking of your hospital. I was such a queer girl then; I imagined myself such a great pianist. Nowadays all young ladies play the piano, and I played, too, like everybody else, and there was nothing special about me. I am just such a pianist as my mother is an authoress. And of course I didn't understand you then, but afterwards in Moscow I often thought of you. I thought of no one but you. What happiness to be a district doctor; to help the suffering; to be serving the people! What happiness!" Ekaterina Ivanovna repeated with enthusiasm. "When I thought	was said at the time was uninteresting, unjust, and stupid; he felt irritated and disturbed, but held his tongue, and, because he sat glumly silent and looked at his plate, he was nicknamed in the town "the haughty Pole," though he never had been a Pole. All such entertainments as theatres and concerts he declined, but he played _vint_ every evening for three hours with enjoyment. He had another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little by little: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the notes he had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were stuffed in his pockets notes--yellow and green, and smelling of scent and vinegar and incense and fish oil--up to the value of seventy roubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he took them to the Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money there to his account. He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four years after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at the invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatment for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to stay with her parents, but he did not once see her; it somehow never happened. But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter was brought to the hospital. Vera Iosifovna wrote to Dmitri Ionitch that she was missing him very much, and begged him to come and see them, and to relieve her sufferings; and, by the way, it was her birthday. Below was a postscript: "I join in mother's request.--K." Startsev considered, and in the evening he went to the Turkins'. "How do you do, if you please?" Ivan Petrovitch met him, smiling with his eyes only. "Bongjour." Vera Iosifovna, white-haired and looking much older, shook Startsev's hand, sighed affectedly, and said: "You don't care to pay attentions to me, doctor. You never come and see us; I am too old for you. But now some one young has come; perhaps she will be more fortunate." And Kitten? She had grown thinner, paler, had grown handsomer and more graceful; but now she was Ekaterina Ivanovna, not Kitten; she had lost the freshness and look of childish naïveté. And in her expression and manners there was something new--guilty and diffident, as though she did not feel herself at home here in the Turkins' house. "How many summers, how many winters!" she said, giving Startsev her hand, and he could see that her heart was beating with excitement; and looking at him intently and curiously, she went on: "How much stouter you are! You look sunburnt and more manly, but on the whole you have changed very little." Now, too, he thought her attractive, very attractive, but there was something lacking in her, or else something superfluous--he could not himself have said exactly what it was, but something prevented him from feeling as before. He did not like her pallor, her new expression, her faint smile, her voice, and soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which had troubled him four years before--and he felt awkward. They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel; she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her to finish. "People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his heart. "Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked. "It was dark and rainy then ..." The warmth was glowing now in his heart, and he longed to talk, to rail at life.... "Ech!" he said with a sigh. "You ask how I am living. How do we live here? Why, not at all. We grow old, we grow stout, we grow slack. Day after day passes; life slips by without colour, without expressions, without thoughts.... In the daytime working for gain, and in the evening the club, the company of card-players, alcoholic, raucous-voiced gentlemen whom I can't endure. What is there nice in it?" "Well, you have work--a noble object in life. You used to be so fond of talking of your hospital. I was such a queer girl then; I imagined myself such a great pianist. Nowadays all young ladies play the piano, and I played, too, like everybody else, and there was nothing special about me. I am just such a pianist as my mother is an authoress. And of course I didn't understand you then, but afterwards in Moscow I often thought of you. I thought of no one but you. What happiness to be a district doctor; to help the suffering; to be serving the people! What happiness!" Ekaterina Ivanovna repeated with enthusiasm. "When I thought of you in Moscow, you seemed to me so ideal, so lofty...." Startsev thought of the notes he used to take out of his pockets in the evening with such pleasure, and the glow in his heart was quenched. He got up to go into the house. She took his arm. "You are the best man I've known in my life," she went on. "We will see each other and talk, won't we? Promise me. I am not a pianist; I am not in error about myself now, and I will not play before you or talk of music." When they had gone into the house, and when Startsev saw in the lamplight her face, and her sad, grateful, searching eyes fixed upon him, he felt uneasy and thought again: "It's a good thing I did not marry her then." He began taking leave. "You have no human right to go before supper," said Ivan Petrovitch as he saw him off. "It's extremely perpendicular on your part. Well, now, perform!" he added, addressing Pava in the hall. Pava, no longer a boy, but a young man with moustaches, threw himself into an attitude, flung up his arm, and said in a tragic voice: "Unhappy woman, die!" All this irritated Startsev. Getting into his carriage, and looking at the dark house and garden which had once been so precious and so dear, he thought of everything at once--Vera Iosifovna's novels and Kitten's noisy playing, and Ivan Petrovitch's jokes and Pava's tragic posturing, and thought if the most talented people in the town were so futile, what must the town be? Three days later Pava brought a letter from Ekaterina Ivanovna. "You don't come and see us--why?" she wrote to him. "I am afraid that you have changed towards us. I am afraid, and I am terrified at the very thought of it. Reassure me; come and tell me that everything is well. " I must talk to you.--Your E. I. " * * * * * He read this letter, thought a moment, and said to Pava: " Tell them, my good fellow, that I can't come to-day; I am very busy. Say I will come in three days or so. " But three days passed, a week passed; he still did not go. Happening once to drive past the Turkins' house, he thought he must go in, if only for	voice, and soon afterwards he disliked her clothes, too, the low chair in which she was sitting; he disliked something in the past when he had almost married her. He thought of his love, of the dreams and the hopes which had troubled him four years before--and he felt awkward. They had tea with cakes. Then Vera Iosifovna read aloud a novel; she read of things that never happen in real life, and Startsev listened, looked at her handsome grey head, and waited for her to finish. "People are not stupid because they can't write novels, but because they can't conceal it when they do," he thought. "Not badsome," said Ivan Petrovitch. Then Ekaterina Ivanovna played long and noisily on the piano, and when she finished she was profusely thanked and warmly praised. "It's a good thing I did not marry her," thought Startsev. She looked at him, and evidently expected him to ask her to go into the garden, but he remained silent. "Let us have a talk," she said, going up to him. "How are you getting on? What are you doing? How are things? I have been thinking about you all these days," she went on nervously. "I wanted to write to you, wanted to come myself to see you at Dyalizh. I quite made up my mind to go, but afterwards I thought better of it. God knows what your attitude is towards me now; I have been looking forward to seeing you to-day with such emotion. For goodness' sake let us go into the garden." They went into the garden and sat down on the seat under the old maple, just as they had done four years before. It was dark. "How are you getting on?" asked Ekaterina Ivanovna. "Oh, all right; I am jogging along,"<\|quote\|>answered Startsev. And he could think of nothing more. They were silent.</\|quote\|>"I feel so excited!" said Ekaterina Ivanovna, and she hid her face in her hands. "But don't pay attention to it. I am so happy to be at home; I am so glad to see every one. I can't get used to it. So many memories! I thought we should talk without stopping till morning." Now he saw her face near, her shining eyes, and in the darkness she looked younger than in the room, and even her old childish expression seemed to have come back to her. And indeed she was looking at him with naïve curiosity, as though she wanted to get a closer view and understanding of the man who had loved her so ardently, with such tenderness, and so unsuccessfully; her eyes thanked him for that love. And he remembered all that had been, every minute detail; how he had wandered about the cemetery, how he had returned home in the morning exhausted, and he suddenly felt sad and regretted the past. A warmth began glowing in his heart. "Do you remember how I took you to the dance at the club?" he asked. "It was dark and rainy then ..." The warmth was glowing now in his heart, and he longed to talk, to rail at life.... "Ech!" he said with a sigh. "You ask how I am living. How do we	The Lady and the Dog and Other Stories (4)
"I tell you it can't be!"	Colonel Ducroix	got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard	Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall	"Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing	motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through	did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which	a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die. "What the devil is up?" cried the Professor, seizing his arm. "The morning star has fallen!" said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star. The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light. "The world is insane!" said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands. "No," said Dr. Bull in adamantine humility, "it is I." "What are we going to do?" asked the Professor. "At this moment," said Syme, with a scientific detachment, "I think we are	and lit it like a burning chariot. But the rest of the street, especially the two ends of it, was in the deepest twilight, and for some seconds they could see nothing. Then Syme, whose eyes were the keenest, broke into a little bitter whistle, and said, "It is quite true. There is a crowd or an army or some such thing across the end of that street." "Well, if there is," said Bull impatiently, "it must be something else a sham fight or the mayor's birthday or something. I cannot and will not believe that plain, jolly people in a place like this walk about with dynamite in their pockets. Get on a bit, Syme, and let us look at them." The car crawled about a hundred yards farther, and then they were all startled by Dr. Bull breaking into a high crow of laughter. "Why, you silly mugs!" he cried, "what did I tell you. That crowd's as law-abiding as a cow, and if it weren't, it's on our side." "How do you know?" asked the professor, staring. "You blind bat," cried Bull, "don't you see who is leading them?" They peered again, and then the Colonel, with a catch in his voice, cried out "Why, it's Renard!" There was, indeed, a rank of dim figures running across the road, and they could not be clearly seen; but far enough in front to catch the accident of the evening light was stalking up and down the unmistakable Dr. Renard, in a white hat, stroking his long brown beard, and holding a revolver in his left hand. "What a fool I've been!" exclaimed the Colonel. "Of course, the dear old boy has turned out to help us." Dr. Bull was bubbling over with laughter, swinging the sword in his hand as carelessly as a cane. He jumped out of the car and ran across the intervening space, calling out "Dr. Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die. "What the devil is up?" cried the Professor, seizing his arm. "The morning star has fallen!" said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star. The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light. "The world is insane!" said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands. "No," said Dr. Bull in adamantine humility, "it is I." "What are we going to do?" asked the Professor. "At this moment," said Syme, with a scientific detachment, "I think we are going to smash into a lamppost." The next instant the automobile had come with a catastrophic jar against an iron object. The instant after that four men had crawled out from under a chaos of metal, and a tall lean lamp-post that had stood up straight on the edge of the marine parade stood out, bent and twisted, like the branch of a broken tree. "Well, we smashed something," said the Professor, with a faint smile. "That's some comfort." "You're becoming an anarchist," said Syme, dusting his clothes with his instinct of daintiness. "Everyone is," said Ratcliffe. As they spoke, the white-haired horseman and his followers came thundering from above, and almost at the same moment a dark string of men ran shouting along the sea-front. Syme snatched a sword, and took it in his teeth; he stuck two others under his arm-pits, took a fourth in his left hand and the lantern in his right, and leapt off the high parade on to the beach below. The others leapt after him, with a common acceptance of such decisive action, leaving the debris and the gathering mob above them. "We have one more chance," said Syme, taking the steel out of his mouth. "Whatever all this pandemonium means, I suppose the police station will help us. We can't get there, for they hold the way. But there's a pier or breakwater runs out into the sea just here, which we could defend longer than anything else, like Horatius and his bridge. We must defend it till the Gendarmerie turn out. Keep after me." They followed him as he went crunching down the beach, and in a second or two their boots broke not on the sea gravel, but on broad, flat stones. They marched down a long, low jetty, running out in one arm into the dim, boiling sea, and when they came to the end of it they felt that they had come to the end of their story. They turned and faced the town. That town was transfigured with uproar. All along the high parade from which they had just descended was a dark and roaring stream of humanity, with tossing arms and fiery faces, groping and glaring towards them. The long dark line was dotted with torches and lanterns; but even where no flame lit up a furious face, they could see in the farthest figure, in	Renard! Dr. Renard!" An instant after Syme thought his own eyes had gone mad in his head. For the philanthropic Dr. Renard had deliberately raised his revolver and fired twice at Bull, so that the shots rang down the road. Almost at the same second as the puff of white cloud went up from this atrocious explosion a long puff of white cloud went up also from the cigarette of the cynical Ratcliffe. Like all the rest he turned a little pale, but he smiled. Dr. Bull, at whom the bullets had been fired, just missing his scalp, stood quite still in the middle of the road without a sign of fear, and then turned very slowly and crawled back to the car, and climbed in with two holes through his hat. "Well," said the cigarette smoker slowly, "what do you think now?" "I think," said Dr. Bull with precision, "that I am lying in bed at No. 217 Peabody Buildings, and that I shall soon wake up with a jump; or, if that's not it, I think that I am sitting in a small cushioned cell in Hanwell, and that the doctor can't make much of my case. But if you want to know what I don't think, I'll tell you. I don't think what you think. I don't think, and I never shall think, that the mass of ordinary men are a pack of dirty modern thinkers. No, sir, I'm a democrat, and I still don't believe that Sunday could convert one average navvy or counter-jumper. No, I may be mad, but humanity isn't." Syme turned his bright blue eyes on Bull with an earnestness which he did not commonly make clear. "You are a very fine fellow," he said. "You can believe in a sanity which is not merely your sanity. And you're right enough about humanity, about peasants and people like that jolly old innkeeper. But you're not right about Renard. I suspected him from the first. He's rationalistic, and, what's worse, he's rich. When duty and religion are really destroyed, it will be by the rich." "They are really destroyed now," said the man with a cigarette, and rose with his hands in his pockets. "The devils are coming on!" The men in the motor-car looked anxiously in the direction of his dreamy gaze, and they saw that the whole regiment at the end of the road was advancing upon them, Dr. Renard marching furiously in front, his beard flying in the breeze. The Colonel sprang out of the car with an intolerant exclamation. "Gentlemen," he cried, "the thing is incredible. It must be a practical joke. If you knew Renard as I do it's like calling Queen Victoria a dynamiter. If you had got the man's character into your head" "Dr. Bull," said Syme sardonically, "has at least got it into his hat."<\|quote\|>"I tell you it can't be!"</\|quote\|>cried the Colonel, stamping. "Renard shall explain it. He shall explain it to me," and he strode forward. "Don't be in such a hurry," drawled the smoker. "He will very soon explain it to all of us." But the impatient Colonel was already out of earshot, advancing towards the advancing enemy. The excited Dr. Renard lifted his pistol again, but perceiving his opponent, hesitated, and the Colonel came face to face with him with frantic gestures of remonstrance. "It is no good," said Syme. "He will never get anything out of that old heathen. I vote we drive bang through the thick of them, bang as the bullets went through Bull's hat. We may all be killed, but we must kill a tidy number of them." "I won't 'ave it," said Dr. Bull, growing more vulgar in the sincerity of his virtue. "The poor chaps may be making a mistake. Give the Colonel a chance." "Shall we go back, then?" asked the Professor. "No," said Ratcliffe in a cold voice, "the street behind us is held too. In fact, I seem to see there another friend of yours, Syme." Syme spun round smartly, and stared backwards at the track which they had travelled. He saw an irregular body of horsemen gathering and galloping towards them in the gloom. He saw above the foremost saddle the silver gleam of a sword, and then as it grew nearer the silver gleam of an old man's hair. The next moment, with shattering violence, he had swung the motor round and sent it dashing down the steep side street to the sea, like a man that desired only to die. "What the devil is up?" cried the Professor, seizing his arm. "The morning star has fallen!" said Syme, as his own car went down the darkness like a falling star. The others did not understand his words, but when they looked back at the street above they saw the hostile cavalry coming round the corner and down the slopes after them; and foremost of all rode the good innkeeper, flushed with the fiery innocence of the evening light. "The world is insane!" said the Professor, and buried his face in his hands. "No," said Dr. Bull in adamantine humility, "it is I." "What are we going to do?" asked the Professor. "At this moment," said Syme, with a scientific detachment, "I think we are going to smash into a lamppost." The next instant the automobile had come with a catastrophic jar against an iron object. The instant after that four men had	The Man Who Was Thursday
“How do you like mother’s friends?”	Daisy	on a white dress too.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>Daisy turned her around so	child calmly. “Aunt Jordan’s got on a white dress too.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>Daisy turned her around so that she faced Gatsby. “Do	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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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	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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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,”	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 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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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	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 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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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?”	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 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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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 sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of	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 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.”<\|quote\|>“How do you like mother’s friends?”</\|quote\|>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	The Great Gatsby
"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"	Jem Wimble	"Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>said Jem, with a chuckle.	about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>said Jem, with a chuckle. "What shall us do?" "Do?"	It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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	both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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	sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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	headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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	he suffered himself to be drawn farther and farther into the cave, till they must have been quite two hundred yards from the mouth; and now, for the first time, the almost straight line which it had formed, changed, and they lost sight of the entrance, but could see the shadow of their enemy cast upon the glistening wall of the place, down which the water seemed to drip, giving it the look of glass. All at once Don, as he crept back, felt his left foot, instead of encountering the smooth rock floor, go down, and as he quickly withdrew it and felt nearer to him, it was to touch the edge of what seemed a great crack crossing the floor diagonally. As he paused, he felt that it might be a "fault" of a few inches in width or depth, or a vast chasm going right down into the bowels of the mountain! "There's a hole here," he whispered to Jem. "Hold my hand." Jem gripped him firmly, and he reached out with one leg, and felt over the side outward and downward; and, just as he was coming to the conclusion that the place was terribly deep, and a shudder at the danger was running through him, he found that he could touch bottom. He was in the act of recovering himself, so as to try how wide the crack or fault might be, when a peculiar strangling sensation attacked him, and he felt that he was falling. The next thing he felt was Jem's lips to his ear, and feeling his whisper,-- "Hold on, lad. What's the matter?" He panted and drew his breath in a catching way for a few minutes before whispering back,-- "Nothing. Only a sudden giddiness." Jem made no comment, but gripped his hand tightly, and they stood listening, for the shadow cast faintly on the walls was motionless, and it was evident that their enemy was listening. "I'm going on, Ramsden," said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. CLOSE SHAVING. "Think he's insensible, or only shamming?" said Jem. "Insensible--quite! I'm afraid he's dead." "I	gripped his hand tightly, and they stood listening, for the shadow cast faintly on the walls was motionless, and it was evident that their enemy was listening. "I'm going on, Ramsden," said the boatswain. "Come along!" "All right, sir. Join you as soon as I've got my prisoners." "Hold 'em tight," shouted the boatswain, and then there was a loud rustling sound, followed by the words faintly heard, "Look sharp. It's of no use fooling there." Don could hear Ramsden mutter something, but he did not seem to be coming on; and mastering the dull, sluggish feeling, accompanied by a throbbing headache, the lad stole cautiously back to where he could look round and see their approaching enemy between them and the light. To his intense surprise he found the man had his back to them, and was retiring; but as he watched, Ramsden made an angry gesticulation, turned sharply and came on again, but seemed to catch his foot against a projecting piece of rock, stumble and fall forward, his cutlass flying two or three yards on before him with a loud jingling noise. What followed riveted Don to the spot. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. GOOD FOR EVIL. Ramsden struggled to his feet as if with an effort, and stood holding his hand to his head, evidently hurt. The next moment he stepped forward, staggering slightly, stooped to pick up his cutlass, and fell forward, uttered a groan, rose up again, and fell down once more, this time to lie without motion. "Jem," whispered Don, "look at that!" "Was looking," whispered back Jem. "Hit his head; sarve him right." Ramsden did not move, and the two fugitives stood anxiously watching. "What shall we do?" "Wait! He'll soon come round and go. May as well sit down." Jem lowered himself to a sitting position, and was in the act of trying to rest on his elbow when he gasped quickly two or three times, and caught at Don, who helped him to a kneeling position, from which he struggled up. "Hah!" he ejaculated; "just as if some one caught me by the throat. Oh, how poorly I do feel. Just you put your head down there, Mas' Don." Don stood thinking and trying to grasp what it meant. Then, with some hazy recollection of dangers encountered in old wells, he bent down cautiously and started up again, for it gradually dawned upon both that for about two feet above the floor there was a heavy stratum of poisonous gas, so potent that it overcame them directly; and it was into this they had plunged as soon as they had stooped down. "Why, Jem," panted Don; "it stops your breath!" "Stops your breath? It's just as if a man got hold of you by the throat. Why, if I'd stopped in that a minute I should never have got up again." "But--but, that man?" whispered Don. "What, old Ramsden? Phew! I'd forgot all about him. He's quiet enough." "Jem, he must be dying."<\|quote\|>"I won't say, `good job, too,' 'cause it wouldn't be nice,"</\|quote\|>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."	Don Lavington
"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."	Jem Wimble	for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I	said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don,	women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't	you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and	keep in Noo Zealanders, but they won't keep in two English chaps, will they?" "Do you think if we got away in the woods, we could manage to live, Jem?" "I think, my lad, if we stop in this here _pah_, we can't manage to at all, so we'll try that other way as soon as we can." "Do you think it will be cowardly to leave these poor creatures in the power of the enemy?" "If we could do 'em any good by staying it would be cowardly; but we can't do 'em any good. So as soon as you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and if you're the same mind as me, off we go to-night." Don's heart beat fast, and a curious feeling of timidity came over him, consequent upon his weakness, but he mastered it, and, laying his hand on his companion's arm, responded,-- "I am ready." "Then we'll make our hay while the sun shines, and as soon as it's dark," said Jem, earnestly, and unconscious of the peculiarity of his use of the proverb. "Let's lie still just as the others do, and then, I'm sorry for 'em; but this here's a case where we must help ourselves." Jem lay there	order the prisoners, wounded and sound, rose up with the women and children; and as patiently and apathetically as possible, allowed themselves to be driven up the hill-side to the strongly-built _pah_, through whose gateway they entered, and then threw themselves wearily down in the shadow of the great fence, while their captors secured the entrance, and a couple of them remained on guard. "Do I look like a sheep, Mas' Don?" said Jem, as he threw himself on the earth. "Sheep? No, Jem. Why?" "Because I feels like one, my lad. Driven in here like one of a flock, and this place just like a great pen; and here we are to be kept till we're wanted for--Oh, don't look like that, Mas' Don. It was only my fun. I say, you look as white as a wax image." "Then don't talk that way," said Don, hoarsely. "It is too horrible." "So it is, dear lad; but it seems to me that they only want to keep us now for slaves or servants. They're not going to, eh?" "No, Jem," said Don looking at the great fence. "Yes, that's just what I think, my lad. Posts like this may keep in Noo Zealanders, but they won't keep in two English chaps, will they?" "Do you think if we got away in the woods, we could manage to live, Jem?" "I think, my lad, if we stop in this here _pah_, we can't manage to at all, so we'll try that other way as soon as we can." "Do you think it will be cowardly to leave these poor creatures in the power of the enemy?" "If we could do 'em any good by staying it would be cowardly; but we can't do 'em any good. So as soon as you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and if you're the same mind as me, off we go to-night." Don's heart beat fast, and a curious feeling of timidity came over him, consequent upon his weakness, but he mastered it, and, laying his hand on his companion's arm, responded,-- "I am ready." "Then we'll make our hay while the sun shines, and as soon as it's dark," said Jem, earnestly, and unconscious of the peculiarity of his use of the proverb. "Let's lie still just as the others do, and then, I'm sorry for 'em; but this here's a case where we must help ourselves." Jem lay there on his back as if asleep, when three stalwart Maoris came round soon after dusk, and took out the bowls which had held the food. They were laughing and talking together, as if in high glee, and it was apparently about the success of the festival, for they looked at their prisoners, whom they then seemed to count over, each in turn touching the poor creatures with the butt ends of their long spears. Don felt the hot blood surge through his veins as one of the three guards gave him a harsh thrust with his spear, but he did not wince, only lay back patiently and waited till the men had gone. They secured the way into the _pah_, after which they squatted down, and began talking together in a low voice. Don listened to them for a time, and then turned over to where Jem lay as if asleep. "Is it dark enough?" he whispered. "Plenty. I'm ready." "Can you manage to get over?" "I will get over," said Jem, almost fiercely. "Wait a little while, Mas' Don." "I can't wait, Jem," he whispered. "I feel now as if I must act. But one minute: I don't like	after partaking of the food, he was ready to accept Jem's suggestion that they should bathe their hands and faces in the rushing water that foamed by close at hand, the conquerors being too much occupied with their singing and feasting to pay much heed to them. So they crept to the rocky edge of the clear, sparkling water, and to their surprise found that it was quite warm. But it was none the less refreshing, and as they half lay afterwards on the sun-warmed rock at the side, watching suspiciously every act of their new masters, in dread of that horror which sent a chill through both, they felt the refreshing glow send new life and strength through them, and as if their vigour were returning with every breath they drew. "Feel better, Mas' Don?" "Yes, much." "So 'm I. If it wasn't for the hole in my shoulder, and it being so stiff, I shouldn't be long before I was all right." "Does it pain you very much?" "Come, that's better, Mas' Don," said Jem. "Better?" "Yes; you're looking up again, and taking a bit o' interest in things. You quite frightened me, you seemed so down. My shoulder? Well, it do give it me pretty tidy. I thought I should have had to squeal when I was washing just now. But my legs are all right, Mas' Don. How's yourn?" "My legs?" "Yes. How soon shall we be ready to cut away?" "Hush!" "Oh! There's no one here understands English. When shall it be-- to-night?" "First time there is an opportunity, Jem," said Don, softly. "That's so, my lad; so every time you get a chance, you eat; and when you don't eat you drink, and lie down all you can." "Do you think any of the men here would try to escape with us?" Jem shook his head. "I don't understand 'em, Mas' Don. Seems to me that these chaps are all fight till they're beaten; but as soon as they're beaten, they're like some horses over a job: they won't try again. No, they're no good to help us, and I suppose they mean to take it as it comes." The two lay in silence now, watching the proceedings of their captors, who were being feasted, till there was a sudden movement, and about a dozen men approached them, spear in hand. At a shouted order the prisoners, wounded and sound, rose up with the women and children; and as patiently and apathetically as possible, allowed themselves to be driven up the hill-side to the strongly-built _pah_, through whose gateway they entered, and then threw themselves wearily down in the shadow of the great fence, while their captors secured the entrance, and a couple of them remained on guard. "Do I look like a sheep, Mas' Don?" said Jem, as he threw himself on the earth. "Sheep? No, Jem. Why?" "Because I feels like one, my lad. Driven in here like one of a flock, and this place just like a great pen; and here we are to be kept till we're wanted for--Oh, don't look like that, Mas' Don. It was only my fun. I say, you look as white as a wax image." "Then don't talk that way," said Don, hoarsely. "It is too horrible." "So it is, dear lad; but it seems to me that they only want to keep us now for slaves or servants. They're not going to, eh?" "No, Jem," said Don looking at the great fence. "Yes, that's just what I think, my lad. Posts like this may keep in Noo Zealanders, but they won't keep in two English chaps, will they?" "Do you think if we got away in the woods, we could manage to live, Jem?" "I think, my lad, if we stop in this here _pah_, we can't manage to at all, so we'll try that other way as soon as we can." "Do you think it will be cowardly to leave these poor creatures in the power of the enemy?" "If we could do 'em any good by staying it would be cowardly; but we can't do 'em any good. So as soon as you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and if you're the same mind as me, off we go to-night." Don's heart beat fast, and a curious feeling of timidity came over him, consequent upon his weakness, but he mastered it, and, laying his hand on his companion's arm, responded,-- "I am ready." "Then we'll make our hay while the sun shines, and as soon as it's dark," said Jem, earnestly, and unconscious of the peculiarity of his use of the proverb. "Let's lie still just as the others do, and then, I'm sorry for 'em; but this here's a case where we must help ourselves." Jem lay there on his back as if asleep, when three stalwart Maoris came round soon after dusk, and took out the bowls which had held the food. They were laughing and talking together, as if in high glee, and it was apparently about the success of the festival, for they looked at their prisoners, whom they then seemed to count over, each in turn touching the poor creatures with the butt ends of their long spears. Don felt the hot blood surge through his veins as one of the three guards gave him a harsh thrust with his spear, but he did not wince, only lay back patiently and waited till the men had gone. They secured the way into the _pah_, after which they squatted down, and began talking together in a low voice. Don listened to them for a time, and then turned over to where Jem lay as if asleep. "Is it dark enough?" he whispered. "Plenty. I'm ready." "Can you manage to get over?" "I will get over," said Jem, almost fiercely. "Wait a little while, Mas' Don." "I can't wait, Jem," he whispered. "I feel now as if I must act. But one minute: I don't like leaving these poor creatures in their helplessness." "More do I; but what can we do? They won't stir to help themselves. Only thing seems to me is to get away, and try and find some one who will come and punish the brutes as brought us here." Don's heart sank, but he knew that his companion's words were those of truth, and after a little hesitation he touched Jem with his hand, and then began to crawl slowly across the open space toward the fence. He looked back to make sure that Jem was following, but the darkness was so thick now, that even at that short distance he could not see him. Just then a touch on his foot set him at rest, and he crept softly on, listening to the low muttering of the men at the gate, and wondering whether he could find the rough part of the fence to which Jem had directed his attention. As he crept on he began to wonder next whether the prisoners would miss them, and do or say anything to call the attention of the guard; but all remained still, save that the Maoris laughed aloud at something one of them had said. This gave him confidence, and ceasing his crawling movement, he rose to his hands and feet, and crept on all fours to the fence, where he rose now to an erect position, and began to feel about for the rough post. Jem was up and by him directly after. Don placed his lips to his ear. "Whereabouts was it?" "Somewhere 'bout here. You try one way, and I'll try the other," whispered Jem; and then Don gripped his arm, and they stood listening, for a faint rustling sound seemed to come from outside. The noise was not repeated; but for quite half an hour they remained listening, till, gaining courage from the silence--the Maori guard only speaking from time to time, and then in a low, drowsy voice--Don began to follow Jem's suggestion, feeling post after post, and sometimes passing his arm through. But every one of the stout pales he touched was smooth and unclimbable without some help; and thinking that perhaps he had missed the place, he began to move back in the darkness, straining his ears the while to catch any sound made by his companion. But all was perfectly still, and every pale	The two lay in silence now, watching the proceedings of their captors, who were being feasted, till there was a sudden movement, and about a dozen men approached them, spear in hand. At a shouted order the prisoners, wounded and sound, rose up with the women and children; and as patiently and apathetically as possible, allowed themselves to be driven up the hill-side to the strongly-built _pah_, through whose gateway they entered, and then threw themselves wearily down in the shadow of the great fence, while their captors secured the entrance, and a couple of them remained on guard. "Do I look like a sheep, Mas' Don?" said Jem, as he threw himself on the earth. "Sheep? No, Jem. Why?" "Because I feels like one, my lad. Driven in here like one of a flock, and this place just like a great pen; and here we are to be kept till we're wanted for--Oh, don't look like that, Mas' Don. It was only my fun. I say, you look as white as a wax image." "Then don't talk that way," said Don, hoarsely. "It is too horrible." "So it is, dear lad; but it seems to me that they only want to keep us now for slaves or servants. They're not going to, eh?" "No, Jem," said Don looking at the great fence. "Yes, that's just what I think, my lad. Posts like this may keep in Noo Zealanders, but they won't keep in two English chaps, will they?" "Do you think if we got away in the woods, we could manage to live, Jem?" "I think, my lad, if we stop in this here _pah_, we can't manage to at all, so we'll try that other way as soon as we can." "Do you think it will be cowardly to leave these poor creatures in the power of the enemy?" "If we could do 'em any good by staying it would be cowardly; but we can't do 'em any good. So as soon as you like, as I said before, I'm ready for a start. Why, there's fern roots, and fruit, and rivers, and the sea--Oh, yes, Mas' Don, I think we could pick up a living somehow, till we reached a settlement, or friendly tribe." Night began to fall soon afterward, and half-a-dozen women came in, bearing more bowls of the gruel-like food, and a couple of baskets of potatoes, which were set down near the prisoners, along with a couple of great vessels of water. "Didn't think I wanted any more yet," said Jem, after eating heartily, for there was an abundance.<\|quote\|>"Go on, Mas Don; 'tarn't so bad when you're used to it, but a shovel full of our best West Indy plarntation sugar wouldn't ha' done it any harm to my thinking."</\|quote\|>"I have eaten all I care for, Jem," said Don, wearily; and he sat gazing at the great fence which kept them in. "No," said Jem, softly; "not there, Mas' Don. Just cast your eyes a bit more to the left. There's quite a rough bit, and if we couldn't climb it, I'm not here." "But what about your shoulder?" "I'll climb it with one hand, Mas' Don, or know the reason why." "But the men on sentry?" "Tchah! They think we're all too done up and cowardly to try to get away. I've been thinking it all over, and if you're the same mind as me, off we go to-night." Don's heart beat fast, and a curious feeling of timidity came over him, consequent upon his weakness, but he mastered it, and, laying his hand on his companion's arm, responded,-- "I am ready." "Then we'll make our hay while the sun shines, and as soon as it's dark," said Jem, earnestly, and unconscious of the peculiarity of his use of the proverb. "Let's lie still just as the others do, and then, I'm sorry for 'em; but this here's a case where we must help ourselves." Jem lay there on his back as if asleep, when three stalwart Maoris came round soon after dusk, and took out the bowls which had held the food. They were laughing and talking together, as if in high glee, and it was apparently about the success of the festival, for they looked at their prisoners,	Don Lavington
Brett said.	No speaker	more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a	in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to	laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do	fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not	and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett	bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them	trees and the shadow of the cathedral, and the town silhouetted against the moon. "Don't feel bad," I said. "I feel like hell," Brett said. "Don't let's talk." We looked out at the plain. The long lines of trees were dark in the moonlight. There were the lights of a car on the road climbing the mountain. Up on the top of the mountain we saw the lights of the fort. Below to the left was the river. It was high from the rain, and black and smooth. Trees were dark along the banks. We sat and looked out. Brett stared straight ahead. Suddenly she shivered. "It's cold." "Want to walk back?" "Through the park." We climbed down. It was clouding over again. In the park it was dark under the trees. "Do you still love me, Jake?" "Yes," I said. "Because I'm a goner," Brett said. "How?" "I'm a goner. I'm mad about the Romero boy. I'm in love with him, I think." "I wouldn't be if I were you." "I can't help it. I'm a goner. It's tearing me all up inside." "Don't do it." "I can't help it. I've never been able to help anything." "You ought to stop it." "How can I stop it? I can't stop things. Feel that?" Her hand was trembling. "I'm like that all through." "You oughtn't to do it." "I can't help it. I'm a goner now, anyway. Don't you see the difference?" "No." "I've got to do something. I've got to do something I really want to do. I've lost my self-respect." "You don't have to do that." "Oh, darling, don't be difficult. What do you think it's meant to have that damned Jew about, and Mike the way he's acted?" "Sure." "I can't just stay tight all the time." "No." "Oh, darling, please stay by me. Please stay by me and see me through this." "Sure." "I don't say it's right. It is right though for me. God knows, I've never felt such a bitch." "What do you want me to do?" "Come on," Brett said. "Let's go and find him." Together we walked down the gravel path in the park in the dark, under the trees and then out from under the trees and past the gate into the street that led into town. Pedro Romero was in the caf . He was at a table with other bull-fighters and bull-fight critics. They were smoking cigars. When we came in they looked up. Romero smiled and bowed. We sat down at a table half-way down the room. "Ask him to come over and have a drink." "Not yet. He'll come over." "I can't look at him." "He's nice to look at," I said. "I've always done just what I wanted." "I know." "I do feel such a bitch." "Well," I said. "My God!" said Brett, "the things a woman goes through." "Yes?" "Oh, I do feel such a bitch." I looked across at the table. Pedro Romero smiled. He said something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't care. Do _you_ care?" "No," Edna said. "Are you a bankrupt?" "Of course I am. You don't care, do you, Bill?" Bill put his arm around Mike's shoulder. "I wish to hell I was a bankrupt. I'd show those bastards." "They're just English," Mike said. "It never makes any difference what the English say." "The dirty swine," Bill said. "I'm going to clean them out." "Bill," Edna looked at me. "Please don't go in again, Bill. They're so stupid." "That's it," said Mike. "They're stupid. I knew that was what it was." "They can't say things like that about Mike," Bill said. "Do you know them?" I asked Mike. "No. I never saw them. They say they know me." "I won't stand it," Bill said. "Come on. Let's go over to the Suizo," I said. "They're a bunch of Edna's friends from Biarritz," Bill said. "They're simply stupid," Edna said. "One of them's Charley Blackman, from Chicago," Bill said. "I was never in Chicago," Mike said. Edna started to laugh and could not stop. "Take me away from here," she said, "you bankrupts." "What kind of a row was it?" I asked Edna. We were walking across the square to the Suizo. Bill was gone. "I don't know what happened, but some one had the police called to keep Mike out of the back room. There were some people that had known Mike at Cannes. What's the matter with Mike?" "Probably he owes them money" I said. "That's what people usually get bitter about." In front of the ticket-booths out in the square there were two lines of people waiting. They were sitting on chairs	something to the other people at his table, and stood up. He came over to our table. I stood up and we shook hands. "Won't you have a drink?" "You must have a drink with me," he said. He seated himself, asking Brett's permission without saying anything. He had very nice manners. But he kept on smoking his cigar. It went well with his face. "You like cigars?" I asked. "Oh, yes. I always smoke cigars." It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake. "You fight to-morrow?" I said. "Yes," he said. "Algabeno was hurt to-day in Madrid. Did you hear?" "No," I said. "Badly?" He shook his head. "Nothing. Here," he showed his hand. Brett reached out and spread the fingers apart. "Oh!" he said in English, "you tell fortunes?" "Sometimes. Do you mind?" "No. I like it." He spread his hand flat on the table. "Tell me I live for always, and be a millionaire." He was still very polite, but he was surer of himself. "Look," he said, "do you see any bulls in my hand?" He laughed. His hand was very fine and the wrist was small. "There are thousands of bulls," Brett said. She was not at all nervous now. She looked lovely. "Good," Romero laughed. "At a thousand duros apiece," he said to me in Spanish. "Tell me some more." "It's a good hand,"<\|quote\|>Brett said.</\|quote\|>"I think he'll live a long time." "Say it to me. Not to your friend." "I said you'd live a long time." "I know it," Romero said. "I'm never going to die." I tapped with my finger-tips on the table. Romero saw it. He shook his head. "No. Don't do that. The bulls are my best friends." I translated to Brett. "You kill your friends?" she asked. "Always," he said in English, and laughed. "So they don't kill me." He looked at her across the table. "You know English well." "Yes," he said. "Pretty well, sometimes. But I must not let anybody know. It would be very bad, a torero who speaks English." "Why?" asked Brett. "It would be bad. The people would not like it. Not yet." "Why not?" "They would not like it. Bull-fighters are not like that." "What are bull-fighters like?" He laughed and tipped his hat down over his eyes and changed the angle of his cigar and the expression of his face. "Like at the table," he said. I glanced over. He had mimicked exactly the expression of Nacional. He smiled, his face natural again. "No. I must forget English." "Don't forget it, yet," Brett said. "No?" "No." "All right." He laughed again. "I would like a hat like that," Brett said. "Good. I'll get you one." "Right. See that you do." "I will. I'll get you one to-night." I stood up. Romero rose, too. "Sit down," I said. "I must go and find our friends and bring them here." He looked at me. It was a final look to ask if it were understood. It was understood all right. "Sit down," Brett said to him. "You must teach me Spanish." He sat down and looked at her across the table. I went out. The hard-eyed people at the bull-fighter table watched me go. It was not pleasant. When I came back and looked in the caf , twenty minutes later, Brett and Pedro Romero were gone. The coffee-glasses and our three empty cognac-glasses were on the table. A waiter came with a cloth and picked up the glasses and mopped off the table. CHAPTER 17 Outside the Bar Milano I found Bill and Mike and Edna. Edna was the girl's name. "We've been thrown out," Edna said. "By the police," said Mike. "There's some people in there that don't like me." "I've kept them out of four fights," Edna said. "You've got to help me." Bill's face was red. "Come back in, Edna," he said. "Go on in there and dance with Mike." "It's silly," Edna said. "There'll just be another row." "Damned Biarritz swine," Bill said. "Come on," Mike said. "After all, it's a pub. They can't occupy a whole pub." "Good old Mike," Bill said. "Damned English swine come here and insult Mike and try and spoil the fiesta." "They're so bloody," Mike said. "I hate the English." "They can't insult Mike," Bill said. "Mike is a swell fellow. They can't insult Mike. I won't stand it. Who cares if he is a damn bankrupt?" His voice broke. "Who cares?" Mike said. "I don't care. Jake doesn't	The Sun Also Rises
There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate	No speaker	benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation	On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of	concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had	of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous	last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold,	I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as if the gracious Personage were coming to condole!” Impatient of the lapse of time, in any case, she assured herself again of the hour. “Well, if he only does come!” “John--the wretch!” Lord Theign returned-- “will take care of that: he has nailed him and will bring him.” “What was it then,” his friend found occasion in the particular tone of this reference to demand, “what was it that, when you sent him off, John spoke of you in Bond Street as specifically intending?” Oh he saw it now all lucidly--if not rather luridly--and thereby the more tragically. “He described me in his nasty rage as consistently--well, heroic!” “His rage” --she pieced it sympathetically out-- “at your destroying his cherished credit with Bender?” Lord Theign was more and more possessed of this view of the manner of it. “I had come between him and some profit that he doesn’t confess to, but that made him viciously and vindictively serve me up there, as he caught the chance, to the Prince--and the People!” She cast about, in her intimate interest, as for some closer conception of it. “By saying that you had remarked here that you offered the	away on one side when he had taken the missive, as Hugh had turned away on the other; Lord Theign drew forth the contents of the envelope and broodingly and inexpressively read the few lines; after which, as having done justice to their sense, he thrust the paper forth again till his daughter became aware and received it. She restored it to her friend while her father dandled off anew, but coming round this time, almost as by a circuit of the room, and meeting Hugh, who took advantage of it to repeat by a frank gesture his offer of Bardi’s attestation. Lord Theign passed with the young man on this a couple of mute minutes of the same order as those he had passed with Lady Grace in the same connection; their eyes dealt deeply with their eyes--but to the effect of his lordship’s accepting the gift, which after another minute he had slipped into his breast-pocket. It was not till then that he brought out a curt but resonant “Thank you!” While the others awaited his further pleasure he again bethought himself--then he addressed Lady Grace. “I must let Mr. Bender know----” “Mr. Bender,” Hugh interposed, “does know. He’s at the present moment with the author of that note at Long’s Hotel.” “Then I must now write him” --and his lordship, while he spoke and from where he stood, looked in refined disconnectedness out of the window. “Will you write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as if the gracious Personage were coming to condole!” Impatient of the lapse of time, in any case, she assured herself again of the hour. “Well, if he only does come!” “John--the wretch!” Lord Theign returned-- “will take care of that: he has nailed him and will bring him.” “What was it then,” his friend found occasion in the particular tone of this reference to demand, “what was it that, when you sent him off, John spoke of you in Bond Street as specifically intending?” Oh he saw it now all lucidly--if not rather luridly--and thereby the more tragically. “He described me in his nasty rage as consistently--well, heroic!” “His rage” --she pieced it sympathetically out-- “at your destroying his cherished credit with Bender?” Lord Theign was more and more possessed of this view of the manner of it. “I had come between him and some profit that he doesn’t confess to, but that made him viciously and vindictively serve me up there, as he caught the chance, to the Prince--and the People!” She cast about, in her intimate interest, as for some closer conception of it. “By saying that you had remarked here that you offered the People the picture--?” “As a sacrifice--yes!--to morbid, though respectable scruples.” To which he sharply added, as if struck with her easy grasp of the scene: “But I hope you’ve nothing to call a memory for any such extravagance?” Lady Sandgate waited--then boldly took her line. “None whatever! You had reacted against Bender--but you hadn’t gone so far as _that!_” He had it now all vividly before him. “I had reacted--like a gentleman; but it didn’t thereby follow that I acted--or spoke--like a demagogue; and my mind’s a complete blank on the subject of my having done so.” “So that there only flushes through your conscience,” she suggested, “the fact that he has forced your hand?” Fevered with the sore sense of it his lordship wiped his brow. “He has played me, for spite, his damned impertinent trick!” She found but after a minute--for it wasn’t easy--the right word, or the least wrong, for the situation. “Well, even if he did so diabolically commit you, you still don’t want--do you?--to back out?” Resenting the suggestion, which restored all his nobler form, Lord Theign fairly drew himself up. “When did I ever in all my life back out?” “Never, never in all your life of course!” --she dashed a bucketful at the flare. “And the picture after all----!” “The picture after all” --he took her up in cold grim gallant despair-- “has just been pronounced definitely priceless.” And then to meet her gaping ignorance: “By Mr. Crimble’s latest and apparently greatest adviser, who strongly stamps it a Mantovano and whose practical affidavit I now possess.” Poor Lady Sandgate gaped but the more--she wondered and yearned. “Definitely priceless?” “Definitely priceless.” After which he took from its place of lurking, considerately unfolding it, the goodly slip he had removed from her blotting-book. “Worth even more therefore than what Bender so blatantly offers.” Her attention fell with interest, from the distance at which she stood, on this confirmatory document, her recognition of which was not immediate. “And is that the affidavit?” “This is a cheque to your order, my lady, for ten thousand pounds.” “Ten thousand?” --she echoed it with a shout. “Drawn by some hand unknown,” he went on quietly. “Unknown?” --again, in her muffled joy, she let it sound out. “Which I found there at your desk a moment ago, and thought best, in your interest, to rescue from accident or neglect; even	write _there?_” --and his daughter indicated Lady Sandgate’s desk, at which we have seen Mr. Bender so importantly seated. Lord Theign had a start at her again speaking to him; but he bent his view on the convenience awaiting him and then, as to have done with so tiresome a matter, took advantage of it. He went and placed himself, and had reached for paper and a pen when, struck apparently with the display of some incongruous object, he uttered a sharp “Hallo!” “You don’t find things?” Lady Grace asked--as remote from him in one quarter of the room as Hugh was in another. “On the contrary!” he oddly replied. But plainly suppressing any further surprise he committed a few words to paper and put them into an envelope, which he addressed and brought away. “If you like,” said Hugh urbanely, “I’ll carry him that myself.” “But how do you know what it consists of?” “I don’t know. But I risk it.” His lordship weighed the proposition in a high impersonal manner--he even nervously weighed his letter, shaking it with one hand upon the finger-tips of the other; after which, as finally to acquit himself of any measurable obligation, he allowed Hugh, by a surrender of the interesting object, to redeem his offer of service. “Then you’ll learn,” he simply said. “And may _I_ learn?” asked Lady Grace. “You?” The tone made so light of her that it was barely interrogative. “May I go _with_ him?” Her father looked at the question as at some cup of supreme bitterness--a nasty and now quite regular dose with which his lips were familiar, but before which their first movement was always tightly to close. “_With_ me, my lord,” said Hugh at last, thoroughly determined they should open and intensifying the emphasis. He had his effect, and Lord Theign’s answer, addressed to Lady Grace, made indifference very comprehensive. “You may do what ever you dreadfully like!” At this then the girl, with an air that seemed to present her choice as absolutely taken, reached the door which Hugh had come across to open for her. Here she paused as for another, a last look at her father, and her expression seemed to say to him unaidedly that, much as she would have preferred to proceed to her act without this gross disorder, she could yet find inspiration too in the very difficulty and the old faiths themselves that he left her to struggle with. All this made for depth and beauty in her serious young face--as it had indeed a force that, not indistinguishably, after an instant, his lordship lost any wish for longer exposure to. His shift of his attitude before she went out was fairly an evasion; if the extent of the levity of one of his daughter’s made him afraid, what might have been his present strange sense but a fear of the other from the extent of her gravity? Lady Grace passes from us at any rate in her laced and pearled and plumed slimness and her pale concentration--leaving her friend a moment, however, with his hand on the door. “You thanked me just now for Bardi’s opinion after all,” Hugh said with a smile; “and it seems to me that--after all as well--I’ve grounds for thanking you!” On which he left his benefactor alone. “Tit for tat!”<\|quote\|>There broke from Lord Theign, in his solitude, with the young man out of earshot, that vague ironic comment; which only served his turn, none the less, till, bethinking himself, he had gone back to the piece of furniture used for his late scribble and come away from it again the next minute delicately holding a fair slip that we naturally recognise as Mr. Bender’s forgotten cheque. This apparently surprising value he now studied at his ease and to the point of its even drawing from him an articulate</\|quote\|>“What in damnation--?” His speculation dropped before the return of his hostess, whose approach through the other room fell upon his ear and whom he awaited after a quick thrust of the cheque into his waistcoat. Lady Sandgate appeared now in due--that is in the most happily adjusted--splendour; she had changed her dress for something smarter and more appropriate to the entertainment of Princes, “Tea will be downstairs,” she said. “But you’re alone?” “I’ve just parted,” her friend replied, “with Grace and Mr. Crimble.” “‘Parted’ with them?” --the ambiguity struck her. “Well, they’ve gone out together to flaunt their monstrous connection!” “You speak,” she laughed, “as if it were too gross--I They’re surely coming back?” “Back to you, if you like--but not to me.” “Ah, what are you and I,” she tenderly argued, “but one and the same quantity? And though you may not as yet absolutely rejoice in--well, whatever they’re doing,” she cheerfully added, “you’ll get beautifully used to it.” “That’s just what I’m afraid of--what such horrid matters make of one!” “At the worst then, you see” --she maintained her optimism-- “the recipient of royal attentions!” “Oh,” said her companion, whom his honour seemed to leave comparatively cold, “it’s simply as if the gracious Personage were coming to condole!” Impatient of the lapse	The Outcry
"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"	Mary Datchet	waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and	write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember	and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary,	be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. "Have you had tea?" "Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other. Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her. "Why? Where is he?" she asked. "He won t have left his office." "But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he have reached home	for a moment consider how this demand would strike Mary. To her extreme annoyance Mary was not at home; a charwoman opened the door. All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation to wait. She waited for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, and spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the other without intermission. When she heard Mary s key in the door she paused in front of the fireplace, and Mary found her standing upright, looking at once expectant and determined, like a person who has come on an errand of such importance that it must be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. "Have you had tea?" "Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other. Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her. "Why? Where is he?" she asked. "He won t have left his office." "But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried to meet him and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. So I must find him as soon as possible." Mary took in the situation at her leisure. "But why not telephone?" she said. Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strained expression relaxed, and exclaiming, "Of course! Why didn t I think of that!" she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Mary looked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharine heard, through all the superimposed weight of London,	and the map of Norfolk in a grip sufficient to crack a more solid object. She relaxed her grasp; she looked anxiously at the faces of the passers-by to see whether their eyes rested on her for a moment longer than was natural, or with any curiosity. But having smoothed out her gloves, and done what she could to look as usual, she forgot spectators, and was once more given up to her desperate desire to find Ralph Denham. It was a desire now wild, irrational, unexplained, resembling something felt in childhood. Once more she blamed herself bitterly for her carelessness. But finding herself opposite the Tube station, she pulled herself up and took counsel swiftly, as of old. It flashed upon her that she would go at once to Mary Datchet, and ask her to give her Ralph s address. The decision was a relief, not only in giving her a goal, but in providing her with a rational excuse for her own actions. It gave her a goal certainly, but the fact of having a goal led her to dwell exclusively upon her obsession; so that when she rang the bell of Mary s flat, she did not for a moment consider how this demand would strike Mary. To her extreme annoyance Mary was not at home; a charwoman opened the door. All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation to wait. She waited for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, and spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the other without intermission. When she heard Mary s key in the door she paused in front of the fireplace, and Mary found her standing upright, looking at once expectant and determined, like a person who has come on an errand of such importance that it must be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. "Have you had tea?" "Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other. Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her. "Why? Where is he?" she asked. "He won t have left his office." "But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried to meet him and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. So I must find him as soon as possible." Mary took in the situation at her leisure. "But why not telephone?" she said. Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strained expression relaxed, and exclaiming, "Of course! Why didn t I think of that!" she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Mary looked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharine heard, through all the superimposed weight of London, the mysterious sound of feet in her own house mounting to the little room, where she could almost see the pictures and the books; she listened with extreme intentness to the preparatory vibrations, and then established her identity. "Has Mr. Denham called?" "Yes, miss." "Did he ask for me?" "Yes. We said you were out, miss." "Did he leave any message?" "No. He went away. About twenty minutes ago, miss." Katharine hung up the receiver. She walked the length of the room in such acute disappointment that she did not at first perceive Mary s absence. Then she called in a harsh and peremptory tone: "Mary." Mary was taking off her outdoor things in the bedroom. She heard Katharine call her. "Yes," she said, "I shan t be a moment." But the moment prolonged itself, as if for some reason Mary found satisfaction in making herself not only tidy, but seemly and ornamented. A stage in her life had been accomplished in the last months which left its traces for ever upon her bearing. Youth, and the bloom of youth, had receded, leaving the purpose of her face to show itself in the hollower cheeks, the firmer lips, the eyes	least, upon an envelope. The more she pressed the farther the words receded. Was the house an Orchard Something, on the street a Hill? She gave it up. Never, since she was a child, had she felt anything like this blankness and desolation. There rushed in upon her, as if she were waking from some dream, all the consequences of her inexplicable indolence. She figured Ralph s face as he turned from her door without a word of explanation, receiving his dismissal as a blow from herself, a callous intimation that she did not wish to see him. She followed his departure from her door; but it was far more easy to see him marching far and fast in any direction for any length of time than to conceive that he would turn back to Highgate. Perhaps he would try once more to see her in Cheyne Walk? It was proof of the clearness with which she saw him, that she started forward as this possibility occurred to her, and almost raised her hand to beckon to a cab. No; he was too proud to come again; he rejected the desire and walked on and on, on and on If only she could read the names of those visionary streets down which he passed! But her imagination betrayed her at this point, or mocked her with a sense of their strangeness, darkness, and distance. Indeed, instead of helping herself to any decision, she only filled her mind with the vast extent of London and the impossibility of finding any single figure that wandered off this way and that way, turned to the right and to the left, chose that dingy little back street where the children were playing in the road, and so She roused herself impatiently. She walked rapidly along Holborn. Soon she turned and walked as rapidly in the other direction. This indecision was not merely odious, but had something that alarmed her about it, as she had been alarmed slightly once or twice already that day; she felt unable to cope with the strength of her own desires. To a person controlled by habit, there was humiliation as well as alarm in this sudden release of what appeared to be a very powerful as well as an unreasonable force. An aching in the muscles of her right hand now showed her that she was crushing her gloves and the map of Norfolk in a grip sufficient to crack a more solid object. She relaxed her grasp; she looked anxiously at the faces of the passers-by to see whether their eyes rested on her for a moment longer than was natural, or with any curiosity. But having smoothed out her gloves, and done what she could to look as usual, she forgot spectators, and was once more given up to her desperate desire to find Ralph Denham. It was a desire now wild, irrational, unexplained, resembling something felt in childhood. Once more she blamed herself bitterly for her carelessness. But finding herself opposite the Tube station, she pulled herself up and took counsel swiftly, as of old. It flashed upon her that she would go at once to Mary Datchet, and ask her to give her Ralph s address. The decision was a relief, not only in giving her a goal, but in providing her with a rational excuse for her own actions. It gave her a goal certainly, but the fact of having a goal led her to dwell exclusively upon her obsession; so that when she rang the bell of Mary s flat, she did not for a moment consider how this demand would strike Mary. To her extreme annoyance Mary was not at home; a charwoman opened the door. All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation to wait. She waited for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, and spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the other without intermission. When she heard Mary s key in the door she paused in front of the fireplace, and Mary found her standing upright, looking at once expectant and determined, like a person who has come on an errand of such importance that it must be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. "Have you had tea?" "Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other. Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her. "Why? Where is he?" she asked. "He won t have left his office." "But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried to meet him and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. So I must find him as soon as possible." Mary took in the situation at her leisure. "But why not telephone?" she said. Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strained expression relaxed, and exclaiming, "Of course! Why didn t I think of that!" she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Mary looked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharine heard, through all the superimposed weight of London, the mysterious sound of feet in her own house mounting to the little room, where she could almost see the pictures and the books; she listened with extreme intentness to the preparatory vibrations, and then established her identity. "Has Mr. Denham called?" "Yes, miss." "Did he ask for me?" "Yes. We said you were out, miss." "Did he leave any message?" "No. He went away. About twenty minutes ago, miss." Katharine hung up the receiver. She walked the length of the room in such acute disappointment that she did not at first perceive Mary s absence. Then she called in a harsh and peremptory tone: "Mary." Mary was taking off her outdoor things in the bedroom. She heard Katharine call her. "Yes," she said, "I shan t be a moment." But the moment prolonged itself, as if for some reason Mary found satisfaction in making herself not only tidy, but seemly and ornamented. A stage in her life had been accomplished in the last months which left its traces for ever upon her bearing. Youth, and the bloom of youth, had receded, leaving the purpose of her face to show itself in the hollower cheeks, the firmer lips, the eyes no longer spontaneously observing at random, but narrowed upon an end which was not near at hand. This woman was now a serviceable human being, mistress of her own destiny, and thus, by some combination of ideas, fit to be adorned with the dignity of silver chains and glowing brooches. She came in at her leisure and asked: "Well, did you get an answer?" "He has left Chelsea already," Katharine replied. "Still, he won t be home yet," said Mary. Katharine was once more irresistibly drawn to gaze upon an imaginary map of London, to follow the twists and turns of unnamed streets. "I ll ring up his home and ask whether he s back." Mary crossed to the telephone and, after a series of brief remarks, announced: "No. His sister says he hasn t come back yet." "Ah!" She applied her ear to the telephone once more. "They ve had a message. He won t be back to dinner." "Then what is he going to do?" Very pale, and with her large eyes fixed not so much upon Mary as upon vistas of unresponding blankness, Katharine addressed herself also not so much to Mary as to the unrelenting spirit which now appeared to mock her from every quarter of her survey. After waiting a little time Mary remarked indifferently: "I really don t know." Slackly lying back in her armchair, she watched the little flames beginning to creep among the coals indifferently, as if they, too, were very distant and indifferent. Katharine looked at her indignantly and rose. "Possibly he may come here," Mary continued, without altering the abstract tone of her voice. "It would be worth your while to wait if you want to see him to-night." She bent forward and touched the wood, so that the flames slipped in between the interstices of the coal. Katharine reflected. "I ll wait half an hour," she said. Mary rose, went to the table, spread out her papers under the green-shaded lamp and, with an action that was becoming a habit, twisted a lock of hair round and round in her fingers. Once she looked unperceived at her visitor, who never moved, who sat so still, with eyes so intent, that you could almost fancy that she was watching something, some face that never looked up at her. Mary found herself unable to go on writing. She turned her eyes	was crushing her gloves and the map of Norfolk in a grip sufficient to crack a more solid object. She relaxed her grasp; she looked anxiously at the faces of the passers-by to see whether their eyes rested on her for a moment longer than was natural, or with any curiosity. But having smoothed out her gloves, and done what she could to look as usual, she forgot spectators, and was once more given up to her desperate desire to find Ralph Denham. It was a desire now wild, irrational, unexplained, resembling something felt in childhood. Once more she blamed herself bitterly for her carelessness. But finding herself opposite the Tube station, she pulled herself up and took counsel swiftly, as of old. It flashed upon her that she would go at once to Mary Datchet, and ask her to give her Ralph s address. The decision was a relief, not only in giving her a goal, but in providing her with a rational excuse for her own actions. It gave her a goal certainly, but the fact of having a goal led her to dwell exclusively upon her obsession; so that when she rang the bell of Mary s flat, she did not for a moment consider how this demand would strike Mary. To her extreme annoyance Mary was not at home; a charwoman opened the door. All Katharine could do was to accept the invitation to wait. She waited for, perhaps, fifteen minutes, and spent them in pacing from one end of the room to the other without intermission. When she heard Mary s key in the door she paused in front of the fireplace, and Mary found her standing upright, looking at once expectant and determined, like a person who has come on an errand of such importance that it must be broached without preface. Mary exclaimed in surprise. "Yes, yes," Katharine said, brushing these remarks aside, as if they were in the way. "Have you had tea?" "Oh yes," she said, thinking that she had had tea hundreds of years ago, somewhere or other. Mary paused, took off her gloves, and, finding matches, proceeded to light the fire. Katharine checked her with an impatient movement, and said: "Don t light the fire for me.... I want to know Ralph Denham s address." She was holding a pencil and preparing to write on the envelope. She waited with an imperious expression.<\|quote\|>"The Apple Orchard, Mount Ararat Road, Highgate,"</\|quote\|>Mary said, speaking slowly and rather strangely. "Oh, I remember now!" Katharine exclaimed, with irritation at her own stupidity. "I suppose it wouldn t take twenty minutes to drive there?" She gathered up her purse and gloves and seemed about to go. "But you won t find him," said Mary, pausing with a match in her hand. Katharine, who had already turned towards the door, stopped and looked at her. "Why? Where is he?" she asked. "He won t have left his office." "But he has left the office," she replied. "The only question is will he have reached home yet? He went to see me at Chelsea; I tried to meet him and missed him. He will have found no message to explain. So I must find him as soon as possible." Mary took in the situation at her leisure. "But why not telephone?" she said. Katharine immediately dropped all that she was holding; her strained expression relaxed, and exclaiming, "Of course! Why didn t I think of that!" she seized the telephone receiver and gave her number. Mary looked at her steadily, and then left the room. At length Katharine heard, through all the superimposed weight of London, the mysterious sound of feet in her own house mounting to the little room, where she could almost see the pictures and the books; she listened with extreme intentness to the preparatory vibrations, and then established her identity. "Has Mr. Denham called?" "Yes, miss." "Did he ask for me?" "Yes. We said you were out, miss." "Did he leave any message?" "No. He went away. About twenty minutes ago, miss." Katharine hung up the receiver. She walked the length of the room in such acute disappointment that she did not at first perceive Mary s absence. Then she called in a harsh and peremptory tone: "Mary." Mary was taking off her outdoor things in the bedroom. She heard Katharine call her.	Night And Day
The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.	No speaker	we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen,"	pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the	with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very	the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of	to the lake immediately, and at the first throwing in of his net he caught four fish, and brought them directly to the sultan, who was so much the more rejoiced, as he did not expect them so soon, and ordered him four hundred pieces of gold. As soon as the sultan had the fish, he ordered them to be carried into his closet, with all that was necessary for frying them; and having shut himself up with the vizier, the minister cleaned them, put them into the pan, and when they were fried on one side, turned them upon the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of it, although I have for sixty years hunted beyond that mountain." The sultan asked the fisherman how far the lake might be from the palace. The fisherman answered it was not above three hours' journey; upon this assurance the sultan commanded all his court to take horse, and the fisherman served them for a guide. They all ascended the mountain, and at the foot of it they saw, to their great surprise, a vast plain that nobody had observed till then, and at last they came to the lake, which they found to be situated betwixt four hills, as the	coming to the lake, threw in his nets betimes next morning, took four fish like the former, and brought them to the vizier at the hour appointed. The minister took them himself, carried them to the kitchen, and shutting himself up with the cook, she cleaned them and put them on the fire. When they were fried on one side, and she had turned them upon the other, the kitchen wall again opened, and the same lady came in with the rod in her hand, struck one of the fish, spoke to it as before, and all four gave her the same answer. After they had spoken to the young lady, she overturned the frying-pan with her rod, and retired into the wall. The grand vizier being witness to what had passed, "This is too wonderful and extraordinary," said he, "to be concealed from the sultan; I will inform him of this prodigy." The sultan, being much surprised, sent immediately for the fisherman, and said to him: "Friend, cannot you bring me four more such fish?" The fisherman replied: "If your majesty will be pleased to allow me three days, I will do it." Having obtained his time, he went to the lake immediately, and at the first throwing in of his net he caught four fish, and brought them directly to the sultan, who was so much the more rejoiced, as he did not expect them so soon, and ordered him four hundred pieces of gold. As soon as the sultan had the fish, he ordered them to be carried into his closet, with all that was necessary for frying them; and having shut himself up with the vizier, the minister cleaned them, put them into the pan, and when they were fried on one side, turned them upon the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of it, although I have for sixty years hunted beyond that mountain." The sultan asked the fisherman how far the lake might be from the palace. The fisherman answered it was not above three hours' journey; upon this assurance the sultan commanded all his court to take horse, and the fisherman served them for a guide. They all ascended the mountain, and at the foot of it they saw, to their great surprise, a vast plain that nobody had observed till then, and at last they came to the lake, which they found to be situated betwixt four hills, as the fisherman had described. The water was so transparent that they observed all the fish to be like those which the fisherman had brought to the palace. The sultan stood upon the bank of the lake, and after beholding the fish with admiration, demanded of his courtiers if it were possible they had never seen this lake which was within so short a distance of the town. They all answered that they had never so much as heard of it. "Since you all agree that you never heard of it," said the sultan, "and as I am no less astonished than you are at this novelty, I am resolved not to return to my palace till I learn how this lake came here, and why all the fish in it are of four colours." Having spoken thus, he ordered his court to encamp; and immediately his pavilion and the tents of his household were planted upon the banks of the lake. When night came the sultan retired under his pavilion, and spoke to the grand vizier thus: "Vizier, my mind is uneasy; this lake transported hither, the black that appeared to us in my closet, and the fish that we heard	frying-pan, with oil, and when she thought them fried enough on one side, she turned them upon the other; but, O monstrous prodigy! scarcely were they turned, when the wall of the kitchen divided, and a young lady of wonderful beauty entered from the opening. She held a rod in her hand and was clad in flowered satin, with pendants in her ears, a necklace of large pearls, and bracelets of gold set with rubies. She moved toward the frying-pan, to the great amazement of the cook, and striking one of the fish with the end of the rod, said: "Fish, fish, are you in your duty?" The fish having answered nothing, she repeated these words, and then the four fish lifted up their heads, and replied: "Yes, yes: if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome, and are content." As soon as they had finished these words, the lady overturned the frying-pan, and returned into the open part of the wall, which closed immediately, and became as it was before. The cook was greatly frightened at what had happened, and coming a little to herself went to take up the fish that had fallen on the hearth, but found them blacker than coal and not fit to be carried to the sultan. This grievously troubled her, and she fell to weeping most bitterly. "Alas!" said she, "what will become of me? If I tell the sultan what I have seen, I am sure he will not believe me, but will be enraged against me." While she was thus bewailing herself, the grand vizier entered, and asked her if the fish were ready. She told him all that had occurred, which we may easily imagine astonished him; but without speaking a word of it to the sultan he invented an excuse that satisfied him, and sending immediately for the fisherman bid him bring four more such fish, for a misfortune had befallen the others, so that they were not fit to be carried to the royal table. The fisherman, without saying anything of what the genie had told him, told the vizier he had a great way to go for them, in order to excuse himself from bringing them that day, but said that he would certainly bring them on the morrow. Accordingly the fisherman went away by night, and coming to the lake, threw in his nets betimes next morning, took four fish like the former, and brought them to the vizier at the hour appointed. The minister took them himself, carried them to the kitchen, and shutting himself up with the cook, she cleaned them and put them on the fire. When they were fried on one side, and she had turned them upon the other, the kitchen wall again opened, and the same lady came in with the rod in her hand, struck one of the fish, spoke to it as before, and all four gave her the same answer. After they had spoken to the young lady, she overturned the frying-pan with her rod, and retired into the wall. The grand vizier being witness to what had passed, "This is too wonderful and extraordinary," said he, "to be concealed from the sultan; I will inform him of this prodigy." The sultan, being much surprised, sent immediately for the fisherman, and said to him: "Friend, cannot you bring me four more such fish?" The fisherman replied: "If your majesty will be pleased to allow me three days, I will do it." Having obtained his time, he went to the lake immediately, and at the first throwing in of his net he caught four fish, and brought them directly to the sultan, who was so much the more rejoiced, as he did not expect them so soon, and ordered him four hundred pieces of gold. As soon as the sultan had the fish, he ordered them to be carried into his closet, with all that was necessary for frying them; and having shut himself up with the vizier, the minister cleaned them, put them into the pan, and when they were fried on one side, turned them upon the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of it, although I have for sixty years hunted beyond that mountain." The sultan asked the fisherman how far the lake might be from the palace. The fisherman answered it was not above three hours' journey; upon this assurance the sultan commanded all his court to take horse, and the fisherman served them for a guide. They all ascended the mountain, and at the foot of it they saw, to their great surprise, a vast plain that nobody had observed till then, and at last they came to the lake, which they found to be situated betwixt four hills, as the fisherman had described. The water was so transparent that they observed all the fish to be like those which the fisherman had brought to the palace. The sultan stood upon the bank of the lake, and after beholding the fish with admiration, demanded of his courtiers if it were possible they had never seen this lake which was within so short a distance of the town. They all answered that they had never so much as heard of it. "Since you all agree that you never heard of it," said the sultan, "and as I am no less astonished than you are at this novelty, I am resolved not to return to my palace till I learn how this lake came here, and why all the fish in it are of four colours." Having spoken thus, he ordered his court to encamp; and immediately his pavilion and the tents of his household were planted upon the banks of the lake. When night came the sultan retired under his pavilion, and spoke to the grand vizier thus: "Vizier, my mind is uneasy; this lake transported hither, the black that appeared to us in my closet, and the fish that we heard speak; all these things so much excite my curiosity that I cannot resist my impatient desire to have it satisfied. To this end I am resolved to withdraw alone from the camp, and I order you to keep my absence secret: stay in my pavilion, and to-morrow morning, when the emirs and courtiers come to attend my levee, send them away and tell them that I am somewhat indisposed and wish to be alone; and the following days tell them the same thing, till I return." The grand vizier endeavoured to divert the sultan from this design; he represented to him the danger to which he might be exposed, and that all his labour might perhaps be in vain; but it was to no purpose; the sultan was resolved. He put on a suit fit for walking and took his cimeter; and as soon as he found that all was quiet in the camp, went out alone, and passed over one of the hills without much difficulty; he found the descent still more easy, and when he came to the plain, walked on till the sun arose, and then he saw before him, at a considerable distance, a vast building. He rejoiced at the sight, in hopes of receiving there the information he sought. When he drew near, he found it was a magnificent palace, or rather a strong castle, of black polished marble, and covered with fine steel, as smooth as glass. Being highly pleased that he had so speedily met with something worthy his curiosity, he stopped before the front of the castle, and considered it with attention. He then advanced toward the gate, which had two leaves, one of them open; though he might immediately have entered, yet he thought it best to knock. This he did at first softly, and waited for some time; but seeing no one, and supposing he had not been heard, he knocked harder the second time, and after that he knocked again and again, but no one yet appearing, he was exceedingly surprised; for he could not think that a castle in such repair was without inhabitants. "If there be no one in it," said he to himself, "I have nothing to fear; and if it be inhabited, I have wherewith to defend myself." At last he entered, and when he came within the porch, he cried: "Is there no one	put them on the fire. When they were fried on one side, and she had turned them upon the other, the kitchen wall again opened, and the same lady came in with the rod in her hand, struck one of the fish, spoke to it as before, and all four gave her the same answer. After they had spoken to the young lady, she overturned the frying-pan with her rod, and retired into the wall. The grand vizier being witness to what had passed, "This is too wonderful and extraordinary," said he, "to be concealed from the sultan; I will inform him of this prodigy." The sultan, being much surprised, sent immediately for the fisherman, and said to him: "Friend, cannot you bring me four more such fish?" The fisherman replied: "If your majesty will be pleased to allow me three days, I will do it." Having obtained his time, he went to the lake immediately, and at the first throwing in of his net he caught four fish, and brought them directly to the sultan, who was so much the more rejoiced, as he did not expect them so soon, and ordered him four hundred pieces of gold. As soon as the sultan had the fish, he ordered them to be carried into his closet, with all that was necessary for frying them; and having shut himself up with the vizier, the minister cleaned them, put them into the pan, and when they were fried on one side, turned them upon the other; then the wall of the closet opened, but instead of the young lady, there came out a black, in the habit of a slave, and of a gigantic stature, with a great green staff in his hand. He advanced toward the pan, and touching one of the fish with his staff, said, with a terrible voice: "Fish, are you in your duty?" At these words the fish raised up their heads, and answered: "Yes, yes; we are; if you reckon, we reckon; if you pay your debts, we pay ours; if you fly, we overcome and are content."<\|quote\|>The fish had no sooner finished these words, than the black threw the pan into the middle of the closet, and reduced them to a coal. Having done this, he retired fiercely, and entering again into the aperture, it closed, and the wall appeared just as it did before.</\|quote\|>"After what I have seen," said the sultan to the vizier, "it will not be possible for me to be easy; these fish, without doubt, signify something extraordinary." He sent for the fisherman, and when he came, said to him: "Fisherman, the fish you have brought us make me very uneasy; where did you catch them?" "Sir," answered he, "I fished for them in a lake situated betwixt four hills, beyond the mountain that we see from hence." "Know'st thou not that lake?" said the sultan to the vizier. "No," replied the vizier, "I never so much as heard of it, although I have for sixty years hunted beyond that mountain." The sultan asked the fisherman how far the lake might be from the palace. The fisherman answered it was not above three hours' journey; upon this assurance the sultan commanded all his court to take horse, and the fisherman served them for a guide. They all ascended the mountain, and at the foot of it they saw, to their great surprise, a vast plain that nobody had observed till then, and at last they came to the lake, which they found to be situated betwixt four hills, as the fisherman had described. The water was so transparent that they observed all the fish to be like those which the fisherman had brought to the palace. The sultan stood upon the bank of the lake, and after beholding the fish with admiration, demanded of his courtiers if it were possible they had never seen this lake which was within so short a distance of the town. They all answered that they had never so much as heard of it. "Since you all agree that you never heard of it," said the sultan, "and as I am no less astonished than you are at this novelty, I am resolved not to return to my palace till I learn how this lake came here, and why all the fish in it are of four colours." Having spoken thus, he ordered his court to encamp; and immediately his pavilion and the tents of his household were planted upon the banks of the lake. When night came the sultan retired under his pavilion, and spoke to the grand vizier thus: "Vizier, my mind is uneasy; this lake transported hither, the black that appeared to us in my closet, and the fish that we heard speak; all these things so much excite my curiosity that I cannot resist my impatient desire to have it satisfied. To this end I am resolved to withdraw alone from the camp, and I order you to keep my absence secret: stay in my pavilion, and to-morrow morning, when the emirs and courtiers come to attend my levee, send them away and tell them that I am somewhat indisposed and wish to be alone; and the following days tell them the same thing, till I return." The grand vizier endeavoured to divert the sultan from this design;	Arabian Nights (2)
The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.	No speaker	how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake,	I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I	Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes,	live for a while until it blows over.” “It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” “Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.” “Really.” “Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” “Stay long?” “No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.” “I know I didn’t.” “Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.” “Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” Myrtle considered. “I	can’t stand them? If I was them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.” “Doesn’t she like Wilson either?” The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene. “You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce.” Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie. “When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over.” “It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” “Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.” “Really.” “Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” “Stay long?” “No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.” “I know I didn’t.” “Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.” “Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” Myrtle considered. “I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.” “You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine. “Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there.” She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection. “The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew	nodded. “I’m scared of him. I’d hate to have him get anything on me.” This absorbing information about my neighbour was interrupted by Mrs. McKee’s pointing suddenly at Catherine: “Chester, I think you could do something with her,” she broke out, but Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom. “I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start.” “Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?” “Do what?” she asked, startled. “You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like that.” Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear: “Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.” “Can’t they?” “Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.” “Doesn’t she like Wilson either?” The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene. “You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce.” Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie. “When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over.” “It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” “Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.” “Really.” “Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” “Stay long?” “No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.” “I know I didn’t.” “Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.” “Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” Myrtle considered. “I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.” “You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine. “Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there.” She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection. “The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to beat the band all afternoon.” “She really ought to get away from him,” resumed Catherine to me. “They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the first sweetie she ever had.” The bottle of whisky—a second one—was now in constant demand by all present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight, but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy	their own homes.” “I like your dress,” remarked Mrs. McKee, “I think it’s adorable.” Mrs. Wilson rejected the compliment by raising her eyebrow in disdain. “It’s just a crazy old thing,” she said. “I just slip it on sometimes when I don’t care what I look like.” “But it looks wonderful on you, if you know what I mean,” pursued Mrs. McKee. “If Chester could only get you in that pose I think he could make something of it.” We all looked in silence at Mrs. Wilson, who removed a strand of hair from over her eyes and looked back at us with a brilliant smile. Mr. McKee regarded her intently with his head on one side, and then moved his hand back and forth slowly in front of his face. “I should change the light,” he said after a moment. “I’d like to bring out the modelling of the features. And I’d try to get hold of all the back hair.” “I wouldn’t think of changing the light,” cried Mrs. McKee. “I think it’s—” Her husband said “Sh!” and we all looked at the subject again, whereupon Tom Buchanan yawned audibly and got to his feet. “You McKees have something to drink,” he said. “Get some more ice and mineral water, Myrtle, before everybody goes to sleep.” “I told that boy about the ice.” Myrtle raised her eyebrows in despair at the shiftlessness of the lower orders. “These people! You have to keep after them all the time.” She looked at me and laughed pointlessly. Then she flounced over to the dog, kissed it with ecstasy, and swept into the kitchen, implying that a dozen chefs awaited her orders there. “I’ve done some nice things out on Long Island,” asserted Mr. McKee. Tom looked at him blankly. “Two of them we have framed downstairs.” “Two what?” demanded Tom. “Two studies. One of them I call Montauk Point—The Gulls, and the other I call Montauk Point—The Sea.” The sister Catherine sat down beside me on the couch. “Do you live down on Long Island, too?” she inquired. “I live at West Egg.” “Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named Gatsby’s. Do you know him?” “I live next door to him.” “Well, they say he’s a nephew or a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm’s. That’s where all his money comes from.” “Really?” She nodded. “I’m scared of him. I’d hate to have him get anything on me.” This absorbing information about my neighbour was interrupted by Mrs. McKee’s pointing suddenly at Catherine: “Chester, I think you could do something with her,” she broke out, but Mr. McKee only nodded in a bored way, and turned his attention to Tom. “I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start.” “Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?” “Do what?” she asked, startled. “You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like that.” Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear: “Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.” “Can’t they?” “Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.” “Doesn’t she like Wilson either?” The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene. “You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce.” Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie. “When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over.” “It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” “Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.” “Really.” “Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” “Stay long?” “No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.” “I know I didn’t.” “Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.” “Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” Myrtle considered. “I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.” “You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine. “Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there.” She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection. “The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to beat the band all afternoon.” “She really ought to get away from him,” resumed Catherine to me. “They’ve been living over that garage for eleven years. And Tom’s the first sweetie she ever had.” The bottle of whisky—a second one—was now in constant demand by all present, excepting Catherine, who “felt just as good on nothing at all.” Tom rang for the janitor and sent him for some celebrated sandwiches, which were a complete supper in themselves. I wanted to get out and walk eastward toward the park through the soft twilight, but each time I tried to go I became entangled in some wild, strident argument which pulled me back, as if with ropes, into my chair. Yet high over the city our line of yellow windows must have contributed their share of human secrecy to the casual watcher in the darkening streets, and I saw him too, looking up and wondering. I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life. Myrtle pulled her chair close to mine, and suddenly her warm breath poured over me the story of her first meeting with Tom. “It was on the two little seats facing each other that are always the last ones left on the train. I was going up to New York to see my sister and spend the night. He had on a dress suit and patent leather shoes, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, but every time he looked at me I had to pretend to be looking at the advertisement over his head. When we came into the station he was next to me, and his white shirtfront pressed against my arm, and so I told him I’d have to call a policeman, but he knew I lied. I was so excited that when I got into a taxi with him I didn’t hardly know I wasn’t getting into a subway train. All I kept thinking about, over and over, was ‘You can’t live forever; you can’t live forever.’ ” She turned to Mrs. McKee and the room rang full of her artificial laughter. “My dear,” she cried, “I’m going to give you this dress as soon as I’m through with it. I’ve got to get another one tomorrow. I’m going to make a list of all the things I’ve got to get. A massage and a wave, and a collar for the dog, and one of those cute little ashtrays where you touch a spring, and a wreath with a black silk bow for mother’s grave that’ll last all summer. I got to write down a list so I won’t forget all the things I got to do.” It was nine o’clock—almost immediately afterward I looked at my watch and found it was ten. Mr. McKee was asleep on a chair with his fists clenched in his lap, like a photograph of a man of action. Taking out my handkerchief I wiped from his cheek the spot of dried lather that had worried me all the afternoon. The little dog was sitting on the table looking with blind eyes through the smoke, and from time to time groaning faintly. People disappeared, reappeared, made plans	his attention to Tom. “I’d like to do more work on Long Island, if I could get the entry. All I ask is that they should give me a start.” “Ask Myrtle,” said Tom, breaking into a short shout of laughter as Mrs. Wilson entered with a tray. “She’ll give you a letter of introduction, won’t you, Myrtle?” “Do what?” she asked, startled. “You’ll give McKee a letter of introduction to your husband, so he can do some studies of him.” His lips moved silently for a moment as he invented, “ ‘George B. Wilson at the Gasoline Pump,’ or something like that.” Catherine leaned close to me and whispered in my ear: “Neither of them can stand the person they’re married to.” “Can’t they?” “Can’t stand them.” She looked at Myrtle and then at Tom. “What I say is, why go on living with them if they can’t stand them? If I was them I’d get a divorce and get married to each other right away.” “Doesn’t she like Wilson either?” The answer to this was unexpected. It came from Myrtle, who had overheard the question, and it was violent and obscene. “You see,” cried Catherine triumphantly. She lowered her voice again. “It’s really his wife that’s keeping them apart. She’s a Catholic, and they don’t believe in divorce.” Daisy was not a Catholic, and I was a little shocked at the elaborateness of the lie. “When they do get married,” continued Catherine, “they’re going West to live for a while until it blows over.” “It’d be more discreet to go to Europe.” “Oh, do you like Europe?” she exclaimed surprisingly. “I just got back from Monte Carlo.” “Really.” “Just last year. I went over there with another girl.” “Stay long?” “No, we just went to Monte Carlo and back. We went by way of Marseilles. We had over twelve hundred dollars when we started, but we got gyped out of it all in two days in the private rooms. We had an awful time getting back, I can tell you. God, how I hated that town!”<\|quote\|>The late afternoon sky bloomed in the window for a moment like the blue honey of the Mediterranean—then the shrill voice of Mrs. McKee called me back into the room.</\|quote\|>“I almost made a mistake, too,” she declared vigorously. “I almost married a little kike who’d been after me for years. I knew he was below me. Everybody kept saying to me: ‘Lucille, that man’s way below you!’ But if I hadn’t met Chester, he’d of got me sure.” “Yes, but listen,” said Myrtle Wilson, nodding her head up and down, “at least you didn’t marry him.” “I know I didn’t.” “Well, I married him,” said Myrtle, ambiguously. “And that’s the difference between your case and mine.” “Why did you, Myrtle?” demanded Catherine. “Nobody forced you to.” Myrtle considered. “I married him because I thought he was a gentleman,” she said finally. “I thought he knew something about breeding, but he wasn’t fit to lick my shoe.” “You were crazy about him for a while,” said Catherine. “Crazy about him!” cried Myrtle incredulously. “Who said I was crazy about him? I never was any more crazy about him than I was about that man there.” She pointed suddenly at me, and everyone looked at me accusingly. I tried to show by my expression that I expected no affection. “The only crazy I was was when I married him. I knew right away I made a mistake. He borrowed somebody’s best suit to get married in, and never even told me about it, and the man came after it one day when he was out: ‘Oh, is that your suit?’ I said. ‘This is the first I ever heard about it.’ But I gave it to him and then I lay down and cried to beat	The Great Gatsby
"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."	Dorian Gray	was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said	the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!"	have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t	me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain	really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason!	I got this offer from Paris, I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! The painter s absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. CHAPTER X. When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid	weeks went on, and I grew more and more absorbed in you. Then came a new development. I had drawn you as Paris in dainty armour, and as Adonis with huntsman s cloak and polished boar-spear. Crowned with heavy lotus-blossoms you had sat on the prow of Adrian s barge, gazing across the green turbid Nile. You had leaned over the still pool of some Greek woodland and seen in the water s silent silver the marvel of your own face. And it had all been what art should be unconscious, ideal, and remote. One day, a fatal day I sometimes think, I determined to paint a wonderful portrait of you as you actually are, not in the costume of dead ages, but in your own dress and in your own time. Whether it was the realism of the method, or the mere wonder of your own personality, thus directly presented to me without mist or veil, I cannot tell. But I know that as I worked at it, every flake and film of colour seemed to me to reveal my secret. I grew afraid that others would know of my idolatry. I felt, Dorian, that I had told too much, that I had put too much of myself into it. Then it was that I resolved never to allow the picture to be exhibited. You were a little annoyed; but then you did not realize all that it meant to me. Harry, to whom I talked about it, laughed at me. But I did not mind that. When the picture was finished, and I sat alone with it, I felt that I was right.... Well, after a few days the thing left my studio, and as soon as I had got rid of the intolerable fascination of its presence, it seemed to me that I had been foolish in imagining that I had seen anything in it, more than that you were extremely good-looking and that I could paint. Even now I cannot help feeling that it is a mistake to think that the passion one feels in creation is ever really shown in the work one creates. Art is always more abstract than we fancy. Form and colour tell us of form and colour that is all. It often seems to me that art conceals the artist far more completely than it ever reveals him. And so when I got this offer from Paris, I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! The painter s absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. CHAPTER X. When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be afraid of, there. Yet he thought it best to be on his guard. Speaking very slowly, he told him to tell the house-keeper that he wanted to see her, and then to go to the frame-maker and ask him to send two of his men round at once. It seemed to him that as the man left the room his eyes wandered in the direction of the screen. Or was that merely his own fancy? After a few moments, in her black silk dress, with old-fashioned thread mittens on her wrinkled hands, Mrs. Leaf bustled into the library. He asked her for the key of the schoolroom. "The old schoolroom, Mr. Dorian?" she exclaimed. "Why, it is full of dust. I must get it arranged and put straight before you go into it. It is not fit for you to see, sir. It is not, indeed." "I don t want it put straight, Leaf. I only want the key." "Well, sir, you ll be covered with cobwebs if you go into it. Why, it hasn t been opened for nearly five years not since his lordship died." He winced at the mention of his grandfather. He had hateful memories of him. "That does not matter," he answered. "I simply want to see the place that is all. Give me the key." "And here is the key, sir," said the old lady, going over the contents of her bunch with tremulously uncertain hands. "Here is the key. I ll have it off the bunch in a moment. But you don t think of living up there, sir, and you so comfortable here?" "No, no," he cried petulantly. "Thank you, Leaf. That will do." She lingered for a few moments, and was garrulous over some detail of the household. He sighed and told her to manage things as she thought best. She left the room, wreathed in smiles. As the door closed, Dorian put the key in his pocket and looked round the room. His eye fell on a large, purple satin coverlet heavily embroidered with gold, a splendid piece of late seventeenth-century Venetian work that his grandfather had found in a convent near Bologna. Yes, that would serve to wrap the dreadful thing in. It had perhaps served often as a pall for the dead. Now it was to hide something that had a corruption of its own, worse than the corruption	from Paris, I determined to make your portrait the principal thing in my exhibition. It never occurred to me that you would refuse. I see now that you were right. The picture cannot be shown. You must not be angry with me, Dorian, for what I have told you. As I said to Harry, once, you are made to be worshipped." Dorian Gray drew a long breath. The colour came back to his cheeks, and a smile played about his lips. The peril was over. He was safe for the time. Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend. Lord Henry had the charm of being very dangerous. But that was all. He was too clever and too cynical to be really fond of. Would there ever be some one who would fill him with a strange idolatry? Was that one of the things that life had in store? "It is extraordinary to me, Dorian," said Hallward, "that you should have seen this in the portrait. Did you really see it?" "I saw something in it," he answered, "something that seemed to me very curious." "Well, you don t mind my looking at the thing now?" Dorian shook his head. "You must not ask me that, Basil. I could not possibly let you stand in front of that picture." "You will some day, surely?" "Never." "Well, perhaps you are right. And now good-bye, Dorian. You have been the one person in my life who has really influenced my art. Whatever I have done that is good, I owe to you. Ah! you don t know what it cost me to tell you all that I have told you." "My dear Basil," said Dorian, "what have you told me? Simply that you felt that you admired me too much. That is not even a compliment." "It was not intended as a compliment. It was a confession. Now that I have made it, something seems to have gone out of me. Perhaps one should never put one s worship into words." "It was a very disappointing confession." "Why, what did you expect, Dorian? You didn t see anything else in the picture, did you? There was nothing else to see?"<\|quote\|>"No; there was nothing else to see. Why do you ask? But you mustn t talk about worship. It is foolish. You and I are friends, Basil, and we must always remain so."</\|quote\|>"You have got Harry," said the painter sadly. "Oh, Harry!" cried the lad, with a ripple of laughter. "Harry spends his days in saying what is incredible and his evenings in doing what is improbable. Just the sort of life I would like to lead. But still I don t think I would go to Harry if I were in trouble. I would sooner go to you, Basil." "You will sit to me again?" "Impossible!" "You spoil my life as an artist by refusing, Dorian. No man comes across two ideal things. Few come across one." "I can t explain it to you, Basil, but I must never sit to you again. There is something fatal about a portrait. It has a life of its own. I will come and have tea with you. That will be just as pleasant." "Pleasanter for you, I am afraid," murmured Hallward regretfully. "And now good-bye. I am sorry you won t let me look at the picture once again. But that can t be helped. I quite understand what you feel about it." As he left the room, Dorian Gray smiled to himself. Poor Basil! How little he knew of the true reason! And how strange it was that, instead of having been forced to reveal his own secret, he had succeeded, almost by chance, in wresting a secret from his friend! How much that strange confession explained to him! The painter s absurd fits of jealousy, his wild devotion, his extravagant panegyrics, his curious reticences he understood them all now, and he felt sorry. There seemed to him to be something tragic in a friendship so coloured by romance. He sighed and touched the bell. The portrait must be hidden away at all costs. He could not run such a risk of discovery again. It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access. CHAPTER X. When his servant entered, he looked at him steadfastly and wondered if he had thought of peering behind the screen. The man was quite impassive and waited for his orders. Dorian lit a cigarette and walked over to the glass and glanced into it. He could see the reflection of Victor s face perfectly. It was like a placid mask of servility. There was nothing to be	The Picture Of Dorian Gray
“All right,”	Tom	the advertisement of the man—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>broke in Tom quickly, “I’m	went on innocently. “You know the advertisement of the man—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>broke in Tom quickly, “I’m perfectly willing to go to	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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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.”	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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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	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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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 sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the	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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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 sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. “Yes.” “Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your	“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 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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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 sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. “Yes.” “Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.” The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. “I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected. “Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore nowadays.” A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face. “Come on, Daisy,” said Tom, pressing her with his hand toward Gatsby’s car. “I’ll take you in this circus wagon.” He opened the door, but she moved out from the circle of his arm. “You take Nick and Jordan. We’ll follow you in the coupé.” She walked close to Gatsby, touching his coat with her hand. Jordan and Tom and I got into the front seat of Gatsby’s car, Tom pushed the unfamiliar gears tentatively, and we shot off into the oppressive heat, leaving them out of sight behind. “Did you see that?” demanded Tom. “See what?” He looked at me keenly, realizing that Jordan and I must have known all along. “You think I’m pretty dumb, don’t you?” he suggested. “Perhaps I am, but I have a—almost a second sight, sometimes, that tells me what to do. Maybe you don’t believe that, but science—” He paused. The immediate contingency overtook him, pulled him back from the edge of theoretical abyss. “I’ve made a small investigation of this fellow,” he continued. “I could have gone deeper if I’d known—” “Do you mean you’ve been to a medium?” inquired Jordan humorously. “What?” Confused, he stared at us as we laughed. “A medium?” “About Gatsby.” “About Gatsby! No, I haven’t. I said I’d been making a small investigation of his past.” “And you found he was an Oxford man,” said Jordan helpfully. “An Oxford man!” He was incredulous. “Like hell he is! He wears a pink suit.” “Nevertheless he’s an Oxford man.” “Oxford, New Mexico,” snorted Tom contemptuously, “or something like that.” “Listen, Tom. If you’re such a snob, why did you invite him to lunch?” demanded Jordan crossly. “Daisy invited him; she knew him before we were married—God knows where!” We were all irritable now with the fading ale, and aware of it we drove for a while in silence. Then as Doctor T. J. Eckleburg’s faded	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—”<\|quote\|>“All right,”</\|quote\|>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 sky. Gatsby started to speak, changed his mind, but not before Tom wheeled and faced him expectantly. “Have you got your stables here?” asked Gatsby with an effort. “About a quarter of a mile down the road.” “Oh.” A pause. “I don’t see the idea of going to town,” broke out Tom savagely. “Women get these notions in their heads—” “Shall we take anything to drink?” called Daisy from an upper window. “I’ll get some whisky,” answered Tom. He went inside. Gatsby turned to me rigidly: “I can’t say anything in his house, old sport.” “She’s got an indiscreet voice,” I remarked. “It’s full of—” I hesitated. “Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money—that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbals’ song of it … High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl … Tom came out of the house wrapping a quart bottle in a towel, followed by Daisy and Jordan wearing small tight hats of metallic cloth and carrying light capes over their arms. “Shall we all go in my car?” suggested Gatsby. He felt the hot, green leather of the seat. “I ought to have left it in the shade.” “Is it standard shift?” demanded Tom. “Yes.” “Well, you take my coupé and let me drive your car to town.” The suggestion was distasteful to Gatsby. “I don’t think there’s much gas,” he objected. “Plenty of gas,” said Tom boisterously. He looked at the gauge. “And if it runs out I can stop at a drugstore. You can buy anything at a drugstore nowadays.” A pause followed this apparently pointless remark. Daisy looked at Tom frowning, and an indefinable expression, at once definitely unfamiliar and vaguely recognizable, as if I had only heard it described in words, passed over Gatsby’s face. “Come on,	The Great Gatsby
sighed the Hatter.	No speaker	"The fourth." "Two days wrong!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"I told you butter wouldn't	a little, and then said "The fourth." "Two days wrong!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"I told you butter wouldn't suit the works!" he added	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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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	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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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	least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what 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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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	round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what 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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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	March Hare was said to live. "I've seen hatters before," she said to herself; "the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad--at least not so mad as it was in March." As she said this, she looked up, and there was the Cat again, sitting on a branch of a tree. "Did you say pig, or fig?" said the Cat. "I said pig," replied Alice; "and I wish you wouldn't keep appearing and vanishing so suddenly: you make one quite giddy." "All right," said the Cat; and this time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone. "Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin," thought Alice; "but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever saw in my life!" She had not gone much farther before she came in sight of the house of the March Hare: she thought it must be the right house, because the chimneys were shaped like ears and the roof was thatched with fur. It was so large a house, that she did not like to go nearer till she had nibbled some more of the lefthand bit of mushroom, and raised herself to about two feet high: even then she walked up towards it rather timidly, saying to herself "Suppose it should be raving mad after all! I almost wish I'd gone to see the Hatter instead!" CHAPTER VII. A Mad Tea-Party There was a table set out under a tree in front of the house, and the March Hare and the Hatter were having tea at it: a Dormouse was sitting between them, fast asleep, and the other two were using it as a cushion, resting their elbows on it, and talking over its head. "Very uncomfortable for the Dormouse," thought Alice; "only, as it's asleep, I suppose it doesn't mind." The table was a large one, but the three were all crowded together at one corner of it: "No room! No room!" they cried out when they saw Alice coming. "There's _plenty_ of room!" said Alice indignantly, and she sat down in a large arm-chair at one end of the table. "Have some wine," the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all round the table, but there was nothing on it but tea. "I don't see any wine," she remarked. "There isn't any," said the March Hare. "Then it wasn't very civil of you to offer it," said Alice angrily. "It wasn't very civil of you to sit down without being invited," said the March Hare. "I didn't know it was _your_ table," said Alice; "it's laid for a great many more than three." "Your hair wants cutting," said the Hatter. He had been looking at Alice for some time with great curiosity, and this was his first speech. "You should learn not to make personal remarks," Alice said with some severity; "it's very rude." The Hatter opened his eyes very wide on hearing this; but all he _said_ was, "Why is a raven like a writing-desk?" "Come, we shall have some fun now!" thought Alice. "I'm glad they've begun asking riddles." "--I believe I can guess that" ," she added aloud. "Do you mean that you think you can find out the answer to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what 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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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. "And ever since that," 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,	to it?" said the March Hare. "Exactly so," said Alice. "Then you should say what you mean," the March Hare went on. "I do," Alice hastily replied; "at least--at least I mean what I say--that's the same thing, you know." "Not the same thing a bit!" said the Hatter. "You might just as well say that 'I see what I eat' is the same thing as 'I eat what I see'!" "You might just as well say," added the March Hare, "that 'I like what 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!"<\|quote\|>sighed the Hatter.</\|quote\|>"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,	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."	Mr. Knightley	without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could	given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that	question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That	said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--" "you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to	marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. "I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--" "you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second." Mr. Knightley grew angry. "That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--" "Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her." Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward	roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own. With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. "I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--" "you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second." Mr. Knightley grew angry. "That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--" "Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her." Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top. While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole. Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest	do it, even without being in love." "Then it can be no argument to prove that he is in love. But I do not think it is at all a likely thing for him to do. Mr. Knightley does nothing mysteriously." "I have heard him lamenting her having no instrument repeatedly; oftener than I should suppose such a circumstance would, in the common course of things, occur to him." "Very well; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told her so." "There might be scruples of delicacy, my dear Emma. I have a very strong notion that it comes from him. I am sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us of it at dinner." "You take up an idea, Mrs. Weston, and run away with it; as you have many a time reproached me with doing. I see no sign of attachment--I believe nothing of the pianoforte--and proof only shall convince me that Mr. Knightley has any thought of marrying Jane Fairfax." They combated the point some time longer in the same way; Emma rather gaining ground over the mind of her friend; for Mrs. Weston was the most used of the two to yield; till a little bustle in the room shewed them that tea was over, and the instrument in preparation;--and at the same moment Mr. Cole approaching to entreat Miss Woodhouse would do them the honour of trying it. Frank Churchill, of whom, in the eagerness of her conversation with Mrs. Weston, she had been seeing nothing, except that he had found a seat by Miss Fairfax, followed Mr. Cole, to add his very pressing entreaties; and as, in every respect, it suited Emma best to lead, she gave a very proper compliance. She knew the limitations of her own powers too well to attempt more than she could perform with credit; she wanted neither taste nor spirit in the little things which are generally acceptable, and could accompany her own voice well. One accompaniment to her song took her agreeably by surprize--a second, slightly but correctly taken by Frank Churchill. Her pardon was duly begged at the close of the song, and every thing usual followed. He was accused of having a delightful voice, and a perfect knowledge of music; which was properly denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own. With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. "I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--" "you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second." Mr. Knightley grew angry. "That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--" "Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her." Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top. While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole. Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were a couple worth looking at. Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have done. "Perhaps it is as well," said Frank Churchill, as he attended Emma to her carriage. "I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me, after yours." CHAPTER IX Emma did not repent her condescension in going to the Coles. The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day; and all that she might be supposed to have lost on the side of dignified seclusion, must be amply repaid in the splendour of popularity. She must have delighted the Coles--worthy people, who deserved to be made happy!--And left a name behind her that would not soon die away. Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two points on which she was not quite easy. She doubted whether she had not transgressed the duty of woman by woman, in betraying her suspicions of Jane Fairfax's feelings to Frank Churchill. It was hardly right; but it had been so strong an idea, that it would escape her, and his submission to all that she told, was a compliment to her penetration, which made it difficult for her to be quite certain that she ought to have held her tongue. The other circumstance of regret related also to Jane Fairfax; and there she had no doubt. She did unfeignedly and unequivocally regret the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She did most heartily grieve over the idleness of her childhood--and sat down and practised vigorously an hour and a half. She was then interrupted by Harriet's coming in; and if Harriet's praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted. "Oh! if I could but play as well as you and Miss Fairfax!" "Don't class us together, Harriet. My playing is no more like her's, than a lamp is like sunshine." "Oh!	denied; and that he knew nothing of the matter, and had no voice at all, roundly asserted. They sang together once more; and Emma would then resign her place to Miss Fairfax, whose performance, both vocal and instrumental, she never could attempt to conceal from herself, was infinitely superior to her own. With mixed feelings, she seated herself at a little distance from the numbers round the instrument, to listen. Frank Churchill sang again. They had sung together once or twice, it appeared, at Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Knightley among the most attentive, soon drew away half Emma's mind; and she fell into a train of thinking on the subject of Mrs. Weston's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only momentary interruptions. Her objections to Mr. Knightley's marrying did not in the least subside. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment to Mr. John Knightley; consequently to Isabella. A real injury to the children--a most mortifying change, and material loss to them all;--a very great deduction from her father's daily comfort--and, as to herself, she could not at all endure the idea of Jane Fairfax at Donwell Abbey. A Mrs. Knightley for them all to give way to!--No--Mr. Knightley must never marry. Little Henry must remain the heir of Donwell. Presently Mr. Knightley looked back, and came and sat down by her. They talked at first only of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; yet she thought, but for Mrs. Weston, it would not have struck her. As a sort of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness in conveying the aunt and niece; and though his answer was in the spirit of cutting the matter short, she believed it to indicate only his disinclination to dwell on any kindness of his own. "I often feel concern," said she, "that I dare not make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It is not that I am without the wish; but you know how impossible my father would deem it that James should put-to for such a purpose." "Quite out of the question, quite out of the question," he replied;--" "but you must often wish it, I am sure." And he smiled with such seeming pleasure at the conviction, that she must proceed another step. "This present from the Campbells," said she--" "this pianoforte is very kindly given." "Yes," he replied, and without the smallest apparent embarrassment.--"<\|quote\|>"But they would have done better had they given her notice of it. Surprizes are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment in Colonel Campbell."</\|quote\|>From that moment, Emma could have taken her oath that Mr. Knightley had had no concern in giving the instrument. But whether he were entirely free from peculiar attachment--whether there were no actual preference--remained a little longer doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice grew thick. "That will do," said he, when it was finished, thinking aloud--" "you have sung quite enough for one evening--now be quiet." Another song, however, was soon begged for. "One more;--they would not fatigue Miss Fairfax on any account, and would only ask for one more." And Frank Churchill was heard to say, "I think you could manage this without effort; the first part is so very trifling. The strength of the song falls on the second." Mr. Knightley grew angry. "That fellow," said he, indignantly, "thinks of nothing but shewing off his own voice. This must not be." And touching Miss Bates, who at that moment passed near--" "Miss Bates, are you mad, to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner? Go, and interfere. They have no mercy on her." Miss Bates, in her real anxiety for Jane, could hardly stay even to be grateful, before she stept forward and put an end to all farther singing. Here ceased the concert part of the evening, for Miss Woodhouse and Miss Fairfax were the only young lady performers; but soon (within five minutes) the proposal of dancing--originating nobody exactly knew where--was so effectually promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole, that every thing was rapidly clearing away, to give proper space. Mrs. Weston, capital in her country-dances, was seated, and beginning an irresistible waltz; and Frank Churchill, coming up with most becoming gallantry to Emma, had secured her hand, and led her up to the top. While waiting till the other young people could pair themselves off, Emma found time, in spite of the compliments she was receiving on her voice and her taste, to look about, and see what became of Mr. Knightley. This would be a trial. He was no dancer in general. If he were to be very alert in engaging Jane Fairfax now, it might augur something. There was no immediate appearance. No; he was talking to Mrs. Cole--he was looking on unconcerned; Jane was asked by somebody else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole. Emma had no longer an alarm for Henry; his interest was yet safe; and she led off the dance with genuine spirit and enjoyment. Not more than five couple could be mustered; but the rarity and the suddenness of it made it very delightful, and she found herself well matched in a partner. They were a couple worth looking at. Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed. It was growing late, and Miss Bates became anxious to get home, on her mother's account. After some attempts, therefore, to be permitted to begin again, they were obliged to thank Mrs. Weston, look sorrowful, and have	Emma
"No,"	Hercule Poirot	my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your	will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr.	that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at	that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct,	doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it." "Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?" "Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely." "What little idea?" "Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name" "No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild such a dreadful idea into my head!" "I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so it's too monstrous, too impossible. It _must_ be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it,	try." With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to Poirot's request for a few minutes' conversation. We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door. "Well, Monsieur Poirot," said Miss Howard impatiently, "what is it? Out with it. I'm busy." "Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?" "Yes, I do." The lady nodded. "And I told you I'd help you with pleasure to hang Alfred Inglethorp." "Ah!" Poirot studied her seriously. "Miss Howard, I will ask you one question. I beg of you to reply to it truthfully." "Never tell lies," replied Miss Howard. "It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You needn't think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I'll admit that it wasn't he who bought strychnine at the chemist's shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning." "That is arsenic not strychnine," said Poirot mildly. "What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I'm convinced he did it, it doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it." "Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?" "Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely." "What little idea?" "Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name" "No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild such a dreadful idea into my head!" "I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so it's too monstrous, too impossible. It _must_ be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing." Poirot nodded, as if satisfied. "I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end." "Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to to" She faltered. "You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you." "And that is?" "You will watch!" Evelyn Howard bowed her head. "Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always watching always hoping I shall be proved wrong." "If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot. "No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?" "I don't know, I don't know" "Come now." "It could be hushed up." "There must be no hushing up." "But Emily herself" She broke off. "Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy	chest upstairs, when he was Shah of Persia?" "He did have a beard, sir," replied Dorcas, smiling. "And well I know it, for he borrowed two skeins of my black wool to make it with! And I'm sure it looked wonderfully natural at a distance. I didn't know as there was a beard up there at all. It must have been got quite lately, I think. There was a red wig, I know, but nothing else in the way of hair. Burnt corks they use mostly though tis messy getting it off again. Miss Cynthia was a nigger once, and, oh, the trouble she had." "So Dorcas knows nothing about that black beard," said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked out into the hall again. "Do you think it is _the_ one?" I whispered eagerly. Poirot nodded. "I do. You notice it had been trimmed?" "No." "Yes. It was cut exactly the shape of Mr. Inglethorp's, and I found one or two snipped hairs. Hastings, this affair is very deep." "Who put it in the chest, I wonder?" "Someone with a good deal of intelligence," remarked Poirot dryly. "You realize that he chose the one place in the house to hide it where its presence would not be remarked? Yes, he is intelligent. But we must be more intelligent. We must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all." I acquiesced. "There, _mon ami_, you will be of great assistance to me." I was pleased with the compliment. There had been times when I hardly thought that Poirot appreciated me at my true worth. "Yes," he continued, staring at me thoughtfully, "you will be invaluable." This was naturally gratifying, but Poirot's next words were not so welcome. "I must have an ally in the house," he observed reflectively. "You have me," I protested. "True, but you are not sufficient." I was hurt, and showed it. Poirot hurried to explain himself. "You do not quite take my meaning. You are known to be working with me. I want somebody who is not associated with us in any way." "Oh, I see. How about John?" "No, I think not." "The dear fellow isn't perhaps very bright," I said thoughtfully. "Here comes Miss Howard," said Poirot suddenly. "She is the very person. But I am in her black books, since I cleared Mr. Inglethorp. Still, we can but try." With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to Poirot's request for a few minutes' conversation. We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door. "Well, Monsieur Poirot," said Miss Howard impatiently, "what is it? Out with it. I'm busy." "Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?" "Yes, I do." The lady nodded. "And I told you I'd help you with pleasure to hang Alfred Inglethorp." "Ah!" Poirot studied her seriously. "Miss Howard, I will ask you one question. I beg of you to reply to it truthfully." "Never tell lies," replied Miss Howard. "It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You needn't think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I'll admit that it wasn't he who bought strychnine at the chemist's shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning." "That is arsenic not strychnine," said Poirot mildly. "What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I'm convinced he did it, it doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it." "Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?" "Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely." "What little idea?" "Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name" "No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild such a dreadful idea into my head!" "I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so it's too monstrous, too impossible. It _must_ be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing." Poirot nodded, as if satisfied. "I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end." "Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to to" She faltered. "You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you." "And that is?" "You will watch!" Evelyn Howard bowed her head. "Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always watching always hoping I shall be proved wrong." "If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot. "No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?" "I don't know, I don't know" "Come now." "It could be hushed up." "There must be no hushing up." "But Emily herself" She broke off. "Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy of you." Suddenly she took her face from her hands. "Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!" She flung her head up proudly. "_This_ is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may." And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room. "There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart." I did not reply. "Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored." "You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about," I observed coldly. "Perhaps you don't realize that _I_ am still in the dark." "Really? Is that so, _mon ami?_" "Yes. Enlighten me, will you?" Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly. "No, my friend." "Oh, look here, why not?" "Two is enough for a secret." "Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me." "I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is a question of ideas." "Still, it would be interesting to know." Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again shook his head. "You see," he said sadly, "_you_ have no instincts." "It was intelligence you were requiring just now," I pointed out. "The two often go together," said Poirot enigmatically. The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries as no doubt I should I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result. There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself. CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN I had had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet. It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did	you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You needn't think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I'll admit that it wasn't he who bought strychnine at the chemist's shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning." "That is arsenic not strychnine," said Poirot mildly. "What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I'm convinced he did it, it doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it." "Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?" "Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely." "What little idea?" "Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?" "Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?" "Not at all." "And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."<\|quote\|>"No,"</\|quote\|>said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp." "What?" "No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more shall I go on?" She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand. "Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name" "No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild such a dreadful idea into my head!" "I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so it's too monstrous, too impossible. It _must_ be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing." Poirot nodded, as if satisfied. "I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end." "Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to to" She faltered. "You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you."	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"Certainly."	Mr. Mcbryde	reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several	half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in	entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech	nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ." "I didn't catch that answer." He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it,	her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ." "I didn't catch that answer." He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the	she feared not even that. A new and unknown sensation protected her, like magnificent armour. She didn't think what had happened, or even remember in the ordinary way of memory, but she returned to the Marabar Hills, and spoke from them across a sort of darkness to Mr. McBryde. The fatal day recurred, in every detail, but now she was of it and not of it at the same time, and this double relation gave it indescribable splendour. Why had she thought the expedition "dull"? Now the sun rose again, the elephant waited, the pale masses of the rock flowed round her and presented the first cave; she entered, and a match was reflected in the polished walls all beautiful and significant, though she had been blind to it at the time. Questions were asked, and to each she found the exact reply; yes, she had noticed the "Tank of the Dagger," but not known its name; yes, Mrs. Moore had been tired after the first cave and sat in the shadow of a great rock, near the dried-up mud. Smoothly the voice in the distance proceeded, leading along the paths of truth, and the airs from the punkah behind her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ." "I didn't catch that answer." He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave." The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then picked them up and said calmly: "Now, Miss Quested, let us go on. I will read you the words of the deposition which you signed two hours later in my bungalow." "Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the Magistrate in charge of the case, and realize their extreme gravity. Remember you speak on oath, Miss Quested." "Dr. Aziz never" "I stop these proceedings on medical grounds," cried the Major on a word from Turton, and all the English rose from their chairs at once, large white figures behind which the little magistrate was hidden. The Indians rose too, hundreds of things went on at once, so that afterwards each person gave a different account of the catastrophe. "You withdraw the charge? Answer me," shrieked the representative of Justice. Something that she did not understand took hold of the girl and pulled her through. Though the vision was over, and she had returned to the insipidity of the world,	coming as it does upon an attempt to intimidate our only other European witness, Mr. Fielding. Mr. Mahmoud Ali would have said nothing had not Mrs. Moore been claimed as a witness by the police." He sat down. "An extraneous element is being introduced into the case," said the Magistrate. "I must repeat that as a witness Mrs. Moore does not exist. Neither you, Mr. Amritrao, nor, Mr. McBryde, you, have any right to surmise what that lady would have said. She is not here, and consequently she can say nothing." "Well, I withdraw my reference," said the Superintendent wearily. "I would have done so fifteen minutes ago if I had been given the chance. She is not of the least importance to me." "I have already withdrawn it for the defence." He added with forensic humour: "Perhaps you can persuade the gentlemen outside to withdraw it too," for the refrain in the street continued. "I am afraid my powers do not extend so far," said Das, smiling. So peace was restored, and when Adela came to give her evidence the atmosphere was quieter than it had been since the beginning of the trial. Experts were not surprised. There is no stay in your native. He blazes up over a minor point, and has nothing left for the crisis. What he seeks is a grievance, and this he had found in the supposed abduction of an old lady. He would now be less aggrieved when Aziz was deported. But the crisis was still to come. Adela had always meant to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, and she had rehearsed this as a difficult task difficult, because her disaster in the cave was connected, though by a thread, with another part of her life, her engagement to Ronny. She had thought of love just before she went in, and had innocently asked Aziz what marriage was like, and she supposed that her question had roused evil in him. To recount this would have been incredibly painful, it was the one point she wanted to keep obscure; she was willing to give details that would have distressed other girls, but this story of her private failure she dared not allude to, and she dreaded being examined in public in case something came out. But as soon as she rose to reply, and heard the sound of her own voice, she feared not even that. A new and unknown sensation protected her, like magnificent armour. She didn't think what had happened, or even remember in the ordinary way of memory, but she returned to the Marabar Hills, and spoke from them across a sort of darkness to Mr. McBryde. The fatal day recurred, in every detail, but now she was of it and not of it at the same time, and this double relation gave it indescribable splendour. Why had she thought the expedition "dull"? Now the sun rose again, the elephant waited, the pale masses of the rock flowed round her and presented the first cave; she entered, and a match was reflected in the polished walls all beautiful and significant, though she had been blind to it at the time. Questions were asked, and to each she found the exact reply; yes, she had noticed the "Tank of the Dagger," but not known its name; yes, Mrs. Moore had been tired after the first cave and sat in the shadow of a great rock, near the dried-up mud. Smoothly the voice in the distance proceeded, leading along the paths of truth, and the airs from the punkah behind her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ." "I didn't catch that answer." He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave." The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then picked them up and said calmly: "Now, Miss Quested, let us go on. I will read you the words of the deposition which you signed two hours later in my bungalow." "Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the Magistrate in charge of the case, and realize their extreme gravity. Remember you speak on oath, Miss Quested." "Dr. Aziz never" "I stop these proceedings on medical grounds," cried the Major on a word from Turton, and all the English rose from their chairs at once, large white figures behind which the little magistrate was hidden. The Indians rose too, hundreds of things went on at once, so that afterwards each person gave a different account of the catastrophe. "You withdraw the charge? Answer me," shrieked the representative of Justice. Something that she did not understand took hold of the girl and pulled her through. Though the vision was over, and she had returned to the insipidity of the world, she remembered what she had learnt. Atonement and confession they could wait. It was in hard prosaic tones that she said, "I withdraw everything." "Enough sit down. Mr. McBryde, do you wish to continue in the face of this?" The Superintendent gazed at his witness as if she was a broken machine, and said, "Are you mad?" "Don't question her, sir; you have no longer the right." "Give me time to consider" "Sahib, you will have to withdraw; this becomes a scandal," boomed the Nawab Bahadur suddenly from the back of the court. "He shall not," shouted Mrs. Turton against the gathering tumult. "Call the other witnesses; we're none of us safe" Ronny tried to check her, and she gave him an irritable blow, then screamed insults at Adela. The Superintendent moved to the support of his friends, saying nonchalantly to the Magistrate as he did so, "Right, I withdraw." Mr. Das rose, nearly dead with the strain. He had controlled the case, just controlled it. He had shown that an Indian can preside. To those who could hear him he said, "The prisoner is released without one stain on his character; the question of costs will be decided elsewhere." And then the flimsy framework of the court broke up, the shouts of derision and rage culminated, people screamed and cursed, kissed one another, wept passionately. Here were the English, whom their servants protected, there Aziz fainted in Hamidullah's arms. Victory on this side, defeat on that complete for one moment was the antithesis. Then life returned to its complexities, person after person struggled out of the room to their various purposes, and before long no one remained on the scene of the fantasy but the beautiful naked god. Unaware that anything unusual had occurred, he continued to pull the cord of his punkah, to gaze at the empty dais and the overturned special chairs, and rhythmically to agitate the clouds of descending dust. CHAPTER XXV Miss Quested had renounced her own people. Turning from them, she was drawn into a mass of Indians of the shopkeeping class, and carried by them towards the public exit of the court. The faint, indescribable smell of the bazaars invaded her, sweeter than a London slum, yet more disquieting: a tuft of scented cotton wool, wedged in an old man's ear, fragments of pan between his black teeth, odorous powders, oils the Scented	match was reflected in the polished walls all beautiful and significant, though she had been blind to it at the time. Questions were asked, and to each she found the exact reply; yes, she had noticed the "Tank of the Dagger," but not known its name; yes, Mrs. Moore had been tired after the first cave and sat in the shadow of a great rock, near the dried-up mud. Smoothly the voice in the distance proceeded, leading along the paths of truth, and the airs from the punkah behind her wafted her on. . . . ". . . the prisoner and the guide took you on to the Kawa Dol, no one else being present?" "The most wonderfully shaped of those hills. Yes." As she spoke, she created the Kawa Dol, saw the niches up the curve of the stone, and felt the heat strike her face. And something caused her to add: "No one else was present to my knowledge. We appeared to be alone." "Very well, there is a ledge half-way up the hill, or broken ground rather, with caves scattered near the beginning of a nullah." "I know where you mean." "You went alone into one of those caves?" "That is quite correct." "And the prisoner followed you." "Now we've got 'im," from the Major. She was silent. The court, the place of question, awaited her reply. But she could not give it until Aziz entered the place of answer. "The prisoner followed you, didn't he?" he repeated in the monotonous tones that they both used; they were employing agreed words throughout, so that this part of the proceedings held no surprises. "May I have half a minute before I reply to that, Mr. McBryde?"<\|quote\|>"Certainly."</\|quote\|>Her vision was of several caves. She saw herself in one, and she was also outside it, watching its entrance, for Aziz to pass in. She failed to locate him. It was the doubt that had often visited her, but solid and attractive, like the hills, "I am not" Speech was more difficult than vision. "I am not quite sure." "I beg your pardon?" said the Superintendent of Police. "I cannot be sure . . ." "I didn't catch that answer." He looked scared, his mouth shut with a snap. "You are on that landing, or whatever we term it, and you have entered a cave. I suggest to you that the prisoner followed you." She shook her head. "What do you mean, please?" "No," she said in a flat, unattractive voice. Slight noises began in various parts of the room, but no one yet understood what was occurring except Fielding. He saw that she was going to have a nervous breakdown and that his friend was saved. "What is that, what are you saying? Speak up, please." The Magistrate bent forward. "I'm afraid I have made a mistake." "What nature of mistake?" "Dr. Aziz never followed me into the cave." The Superintendent slammed down his papers, then picked them up and said calmly: "Now, Miss Quested, let us go on. I will read you the words of the deposition which you signed two hours later in my bungalow." "Excuse me, Mr. McBryde, you cannot go on. I am speaking to the witness myself. And the public will be silent. If it continues to talk, I have the court cleared. Miss Quested, address your remarks to me, who am the Magistrate in charge of the case, and realize their extreme gravity. Remember you speak on oath, Miss Quested." "Dr. Aziz never" "I stop these proceedings on medical grounds," cried the Major on a word from Turton, and all the English rose from their chairs at once, large white figures behind which the little magistrate was hidden. The Indians rose too, hundreds of things went on at once, so that afterwards each person gave a different account of the catastrophe. "You withdraw	A Passage To India
"We had some luck butting that tree."	Ronny Heaslop	are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . .	it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is	Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said	The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right	a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow	the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!" He fell asleep. Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed along a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl	country, but he paid little heed. Women who exposed their face became by that one act so mysterious to him that he took them at the valuation of their men folk rather than at his own. Perhaps they were not immoral, and anyhow they were not his affair. On seeing the City Magistrate alone with a maiden at twilight, he had borne down on them with hospitable intent. He had a new little car, and wished to place it at their disposal; the City Magistrate would decide whether the offer was acceptable. Ronny was by this time rather ashamed of his curtness to Aziz and Godbole, and here was an opportunity of showing that he could treat Indians with consideration when they deserved it. So he said to Adela, with the same sad friendliness that he had employed when discussing the bird, "Would half an hour's spin entertain you at all?" "Oughtn't we to get back to the bungalow." "Why?" He gazed at her. "I think perhaps I ought to see your mother and discuss future plans." "That's as you like, but there's no hurry, is there?" "Let me take you to the bungalow, and first the little spin," cried the old man, and hastened to the car. "He may show you some aspect of the country I can't, and he's a real loyalist. I thought you might care for a bit of a change." Determined to give him no more trouble, she agreed, but her desire to see India had suddenly decreased. There had been a factitious element in it. How should they seat themselves in the car? The elegant grandson had to be left behind. The Nawab Bahadur got up in front, for he had no intention of neighbouring an English girl. "Despite my advanced years, I am learning to drive," he said. "Man can learn everything if he will but try." And foreseeing a further difficulty, he added, "I do not do the actual steering. I sit and ask my chauffeur questions, and thus learn the reason for everything that is done before I do it myself. By this method serious and I may say ludicrous accidents, such as befell one of my compatriots during that delightful reception at the English Club, are avoided. Our good Panna Lal! I hope, sahib, that great damage was not done to your flowers. Let us have our little spin down the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!" He fell asleep. Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed along a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive personal relationship, and felt adventurous as they muddled about in the dust. "I believe it was a buffalo," she called to their host, who had not accompanied them. "Exactly." "Unless it was a hyena." Ronny approved this last conjecture. Hyenas prowl in nullahs and headlights dazzle them. "Excellent, a hyena," said the Indian with an angry irony and a gesture at the night. "Mr. Harris!" "Half a mo-ment. Give me ten minutes' time." "Sahib says hyena." "Don't worry Mr. Harris. He saved us from a nasty smash. Harris, well done!" "A smash, sahib, that would not have taken place had he obeyed and taken us Gangavati side, instead of Marabar." "My fault that. I told him to come this way because the road's better. Mr. Lesley has made it pukka right up to the hills." "Ah, now I begin to understand." Seeming to pull himself together, he apologized slowly and elaborately for the accident. Ronny murmured, "Not at all," but apologies were his due, and should have started sooner: because English people are so calm at a crisis, it is not to be assumed that they are unimportant. The Nawab Bahadur had not come out very well. At that moment a large car approached from the opposite direction. Ronny advanced a few steps down the road, and with authority in his voice and gesture stopped it. It bore the inscription "Mudkul State" across its bonnet. All friskiness and friendliness, Miss Derek sat inside. "Mr. Heaslop, Miss Quested, what are you holding up an innocent female for?" "We've had a breakdown." "But how putrid!" "We ran into a hyena!" "How absolutely rotten!" "Can you give us a lift?" "Yes, indeed." "Take me too," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Heh, what about me?" cried Mr. Harris. "Now what's all this? I'm not an omnibus," said Miss Derek with decision. "I've a harmonium and two dogs in here with me as it is. I'll take three of you if one'll sit in front and nurse a pug. No more." "I will sit in front," said the Nawab Bahadur. "Then hop in: I've no notion who you are." "Heh no, what about my dinner? I can't be left alone all the night." Trying to look and feel like a European, the chauffeur interposed aggressively. He still wore a topi, despite the darkness, and his face, to which the Ruling Race had contributed little beyond bad teeth, peered out of it pathetically, and seemed to say, "What's it all about? Don't worry me so, you blacks and whites. Here I am, stuck in dam India same as you, and you got to fit me in better than	I am learning to drive," he said. "Man can learn everything if he will but try." And foreseeing a further difficulty, he added, "I do not do the actual steering. I sit and ask my chauffeur questions, and thus learn the reason for everything that is done before I do it myself. By this method serious and I may say ludicrous accidents, such as befell one of my compatriots during that delightful reception at the English Club, are avoided. Our good Panna Lal! I hope, sahib, that great damage was not done to your flowers. Let us have our little spin down the Gangavati road. Half one league onwards!" He fell asleep. Ronny instructed the chauffeur to take the Marabar road rather than the Gangavati, since the latter was under repair, and settled himself down beside the lady he had lost. The car made a burring noise and rushed along a chauss e that ran upon an embankment above melancholy fields. Trees of a poor quality bordered the road, indeed the whole scene was inferior, and suggested that the country-side was too vast to admit of excellence. In vain did each item in it call out, "Come, come." There was not enough god to go round. The two young people conversed feebly and felt unimportant. When the darkness began, it seemed to well out of the meagre vegetation, entirely covering the fields each side of them before it brimmed over the road. Ronny's face grew dim an event that always increased her esteem for his character. Her hand touched his, owing to a jolt, and one of the thrills so frequent in the animal kingdom passed between them, and announced that all their difficulties were only a lovers' quarrel. Each was too proud to increase the pressure, but neither withdrew it, and a spurious unity descended on them, as local and temporary as the gleam that inhabits a firefly. It would vanish in a moment, perhaps to reappear, but the darkness is alone durable. And the night that encircled them, absolute as it seemed, was itself only a spurious unity, being modified by the gleams of day that leaked up round the edges of the earth, and by the stars. They gripped . . . bump, jump, a swerve, two wheels lifted in the air, breaks on, bump with tree at edge of embankment, standstill. An accident. A slight one. Nobody hurt. The Nawab Bahadur awoke. He cried out in Arabic, and violently tugged his beard. "What's the damage?" enquired Ronny, after the moment's pause that he permitted himself before taking charge of a situation. The Eurasian, inclined to be flustered, rallied to the sound of his voice, and, every inch an Englishman, replied, "You give me five minutes' time, I'll take you any dam anywhere." "Frightened, Adela?" He released her hand. "Not a bit." "I consider not to be frightened the height of folly," cried the Nawab Bahadur quite rudely. "Well, it's all over now, tears are useless," said Ronny, dismounting.<\|quote\|>"We had some luck butting that tree."</\|quote\|>"All over . . . oh yes, the danger is past, let us smoke cigarettes, let us do anything we please. Oh yes . . . enjoy ourselves oh my merciful God . . ." His words died into Arabic again. "Wasn't the bridge. We skidded." "We didn't skid," said Adela, who had seen the cause of the accident, and thought everyone must have seen it too. "We ran into an animal." A loud cry broke from the old man: his terror was disproportionate and ridiculous. "An animal?" "A large animal rushed up out of the dark on the right and hit us." "By Jove, she's right," Ronny exclaimed. "The paint's gone." "By Jove, sir, your lady is right," echoed the Eurasian. Just by the hinges of the door was a dent, and the door opened with difficulty. "Of course I'm right. I saw its hairy back quite plainly." "I say, Adela, what was it?" "I don't know the animals any better than the birds here too big for a goat." "Exactly, too big for a goat . . ." said the old man. Ronny said, "Let's go into this; let's look for its tracks." "Exactly; you wish to borrow this electric torch." The English people walked a few steps back into the darkness, united and happy. Thanks to their youth and upbringing, they were not upset by the accident. They traced back the writhing of the tyres to the source of their disturbance. It was just after the exit from a bridge; the animal had probably come up out of the nullah. Steady and smooth ran the marks of the car, ribbons neatly nicked with lozenges, then all went mad. Certainly some external force had impinged, but the road had been used by too many objects for any one track to be legible, and the torch created such high lights and black shadows that they could not interpret what it revealed. Moreover, Adela in her excitement knelt and swept her skirts about, until it was she if anyone who appeared to have attacked the car. The incident was a great relief to them both. They forgot their abortive	A Passage To India
"Yes, China. What of that?"	Boatswain	Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"China!" cried Jem. "Why, I	get to China." "China?" said Jem, sitting up sharply. "China?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"China!" cried Jem. "Why, I thought we were sailing round	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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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	to it, you'll be here for a week." "Are we nearly there, sir?" said Jem, with a groan. "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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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	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?" said Jem, with a groan. "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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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	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?" said Jem, with a groan. "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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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	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?" said Jem, with a groan. "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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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 that he did not feel so weak and giddy, while, by the time he was on deck, it as suddenly occurred to him that he could eat some breakfast. "I thought as much," said Jem. "Lookye there, Mas' Don. Did you ever see such a miserable sneak?" For there, not half-a-dozen yards away, was the sinister-looking sailor talking to the bluff boatswain. "Oh, yes, of course," said the latter, as he caught sight of the recruits. "So does every man who is pressed, and if he does	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?" said Jem, with a groan. "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?"<\|quote\|>"Yes, China. What of that?"</\|quote\|>"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.	Don Lavington
"I never went to him,"	The Mock Turtle	an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with	Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing	Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice,	the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea	Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his	sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that." "With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--"	to Alice. "What _is_ the fun?" said Alice. "Why, _she_," said the Gryphon. "It's all her fancy, that: they never executes nobody, you know. Come on!" "Everybody says 'come on!' here," thought Alice, as she went slowly after it: "I never was so ordered about in all my life, never!" They had not gone far before they saw the Mock Turtle in the distance, sitting sad and lonely on a little ledge of rock, and, as they came nearer, Alice could hear him sighing as if his heart would break. She pitied him deeply. "What is his sorrow?" she asked the Gryphon, and the Gryphon answered, very nearly in the same words as before, "It's all his fancy, that: he hasn't got no sorrow, you know. Come on!" So they went up to the Mock Turtle, who looked at them with large eyes full of tears, but said nothing. "This here young lady," said the Gryphon, "she wants for to know your history, she do." "I'll tell it her," said the Mock Turtle in a deep, hollow tone: "sit down, both of you, and don't speak a word till I've finished." So they sat down, and nobody spoke for some minutes. Alice thought to herself, "I don't see how he can _ever_ finish, if he doesn't begin." But she waited patiently. "Once," said the Mock Turtle at last, with a deep sigh, "I was a real Turtle." These words were followed by a very long silence, broken only by an occasional exclamation of "Hjckrrh!" from the Gryphon, and the constant heavy sobbing of the Mock Turtle. Alice was very nearly getting up and saying, "Thank you, sir, for your interesting story," but she could not help thinking there _must_ be more to come, so she sat still and said nothing. "When we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked. "We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that." "With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance twice, set to partners--" "--change lobsters, and retire in same order," continued the Gryphon. "Then, you know," the Mock Turtle went on, "you throw the--" "The lobsters!" shouted the Gryphon, with a bound into the air. "--as far out to sea as you can--" "Swim after them!" screamed the Gryphon. "Turn a somersault in the sea!" cried the Mock Turtle, capering wildly about. "Change lobsters again!" yelled the Gryphon at the top of its voice. "Back to land again, and that's all the first figure," said the Mock Turtle, suddenly dropping his voice; and the two creatures, who had been jumping about like mad things all this time, sat down again very sadly and quietly, and looked at Alice. "It must be a very pretty dance," said Alice timidly. "Would you like to see a little of it?" said the Mock Turtle. "Very much indeed," said Alice. "Come, let's try the first figure!" said the Mock Turtle to the Gryphon. "We can do without lobsters, you know. Which shall sing?" "Oh, _you_ sing," said the Gryphon. "I've forgotten the words." So they began solemnly dancing round and round Alice, every now and then treading on her toes when they passed too close, and waving their forepaws to mark the time, while the Mock Turtle sang this, very slowly and sadly:-- "Will you walk a little faster?" said a whiting to a snail. "There's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle--will you come and join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?" "You can really have no notion how delightful it will be When they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!" "But the snail replied "Too far, too far!" and gave a look askance-- Said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance. Would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance." "What matters it how far we go?" his scaly friend replied. "There is another shore, you know, upon the other side. The further off from England the nearer is to France-- Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?	we were little," the Mock Turtle went on at last, more calmly, though still sobbing a little now and then, "we went to school in the sea. The master was an old Turtle--we used to call him Tortoise--" "Why did you call him Tortoise, if he wasn't one?" Alice asked. "We called him Tortoise because he taught us," said the Mock Turtle angrily: "really you are very dull!" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking such a simple question," added the Gryphon; and then they both sat silent and looked at poor Alice, who felt ready to sink into the earth. At last the Gryphon said to the Mock Turtle, "Drive on, old fellow! Don't be all day about it!" and he went on in these words: "Yes, we went to school in the sea, though you mayn't believe it--" "I never said I didn't!" interrupted Alice. "You did," said the Mock Turtle. "Hold your tongue!" added the Gryphon, before Alice could speak again. The Mock Turtle went on. "We had the best of educations--in fact, we went to school every day--" "_I've_ been to a day-school, too," said Alice; "you needn't be so proud as all that." "With extras?" asked the Mock Turtle a little anxiously. "Yes," said Alice, "we learned French and music." "And washing?" said the Mock Turtle. "Certainly not!" said Alice indignantly. "Ah! then yours wasn't a really good school," said the Mock Turtle in a tone of great relief. "Now at _ours_ they had at the end of the bill, 'French, music, _and washing_--extra.'" "You couldn't have wanted it much," said Alice; "living at the bottom of the sea." "I couldn't afford to learn it." said the Mock Turtle with a sigh. "I only took the regular course." "What was that?" inquired Alice. "Reeling and Writhing, of course, to begin with," the Mock Turtle replied; "and then the different branches of Arithmetic--Ambition, Distraction, Uglification, and Derision." "I never heard of 'Uglification,'" Alice ventured to say. "What is it?" The Gryphon lifted up both its paws in surprise. "What! Never heard of uglifying!" it exclaimed. "You know what to beautify is, I suppose?" "Yes," said Alice doubtfully: "it means--to--make--anything--prettier." "Well, then," the Gryphon went on, "if you don't know what to uglify is, you _are_ a simpleton." Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more questions about it, so she turned to the Mock Turtle, and said "What else had you to learn?" "Well, there was Mystery," the Mock Turtle replied, counting off the subjects on his flappers, "--Mystery, ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling--the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used to come once a week: _he_ taught us Drawling, Stretching, and Fainting in Coils." "What was _that_ like?" said Alice. "Well, I can't show it you myself," the Mock Turtle said: "I'm too stiff. And the Gryphon never learnt it." "Hadn't time," said the Gryphon: "I went to the Classics master, though. He was an old crab, _he_ was."<\|quote\|>"I never went to him,"</\|quote\|>the Mock Turtle said with a sigh: "he taught Laughing and Grief, they used to say." "So he did, so he did," said the Gryphon, sighing in his turn; and both creatures hid their faces in their paws. "And how many hours a day did you do lessons?" said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject. "Ten hours the first day," said the Mock Turtle: "nine the next, and so on." "What a curious plan!" exclaimed Alice. "That's the reason they're called lessons," the Gryphon remarked: "because they lessen from day to day." This was quite a new idea to Alice, and she thought it over a little before she made her next remark. "Then the eleventh day must have been a holiday?" "Of course it was," said the Mock Turtle. "And how did you manage on the twelfth?" Alice went on eagerly. "That's enough about lessons," the Gryphon interrupted in a very decided tone: "tell her something about the games now." CHAPTER X. The Lobster Quadrille The Mock Turtle sighed deeply, and drew the back of one flapper across his eyes. He looked at Alice, and tried to speak, but for a minute or two sobs choked his voice. "Same as if he had a bone in his throat," said the Gryphon: and it set to work shaking him and punching him in the back. At last the Mock Turtle recovered his voice, and, with tears running down his cheeks, he went on again:-- "You may not have lived much under the sea--" (" "I haven't," said Alice)--" "and perhaps you were never even introduced to a lobster--" (Alice began to say "I once tasted--" but checked herself hastily, and said "No, never" ") "--so you can have no idea what a delightful thing a Lobster Quadrille is!" "No, indeed," said Alice. "What sort of a dance is it?" "Why," said the Gryphon, "you first form into a line along the sea-shore--" "Two lines!" cried the Mock Turtle. "Seals, turtles, salmon, and so on; then, when you've cleared all the jelly-fish out of the way--" "_That_ generally takes some time," interrupted the Gryphon. "--you advance twice--" "Each with a lobster as a partner!" cried the Gryphon. "Of course," the Mock Turtle said: "advance	Alices Adventures In Wonderland
"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"	Ralph Denham	without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t	me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about	she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy	Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of	seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or	but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams. "Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing." The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or deeds that might have made her think badly of him. In his present mood instances came but too quickly, and on top of them this culminating proof of his baseness that he had asked her to marry him when his reasons for such a proposal were selfish and half-hearted. "You needn t answer," he said grimly. "There are reasons enough, I know. But must they kill our friendship, Mary? Let me keep that, at least." "Oh," she thought to herself, with a sudden rush of anguish which threatened disaster to her self-respect, "it has come to this to this when I could have given him everything!" "Yes, we can still be friends," she said, with what firmness she could muster. "I shall want your friendship," he said. He added, "If you find it possible, let me see you as often as you can. The oftener the better. I shall want your help." She promised this, and they went on to talk calmly of things that had no reference to their feelings a talk which, in its constraint, was infinitely sad to both of them. One more reference was made to the state of things between them late that night, when	t be harder to earn a living there than it is here. However, that s not the point. The point is, Mary, that I want to marry you. Well, what do you say?" He spoke firmly, waited for no answer, and took her arm in his. "You know me by this time, the good and the bad," he went on. "You know my tempers. I ve tried to let you know my faults. Well, what do you say, Mary?" She said nothing, but this did not seem to strike him. "In most ways, at least in the important ways, as you said, we know each other and we think alike. I believe you are the only person in the world I could live with happily. And if you feel the same about me as you do, don t you, Mary? we should make each other happy." Here he paused, and seemed to be in no hurry for an answer; he seemed, indeed, to be continuing his own thoughts. "Yes, but I m afraid I couldn t do it," Mary said at last. The casual and rather hurried way in which she spoke, together with the fact that she was saying the exact opposite of what he expected her to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly. "You couldn t do it?" he asked. "No, I couldn t marry you," she replied. "You don t care for me?" She made no answer. "Well, Mary," he said, with a curious laugh, "I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did." They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: "I don t believe you, Mary. You re not telling me the truth." "I m too tired to argue, Ralph," she replied, turning her head away from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams. "Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing." The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or deeds that might have made her think badly of him. In his present mood instances came but too quickly, and on top of them this culminating proof of his baseness that he had asked her to marry him when his reasons for such a proposal were selfish and half-hearted. "You needn t answer," he said grimly. "There are reasons enough, I know. But must they kill our friendship, Mary? Let me keep that, at least." "Oh," she thought to herself, with a sudden rush of anguish which threatened disaster to her self-respect, "it has come to this to this when I could have given him everything!" "Yes, we can still be friends," she said, with what firmness she could muster. "I shall want your friendship," he said. He added, "If you find it possible, let me see you as often as you can. The oftener the better. I shall want your help." She promised this, and they went on to talk calmly of things that had no reference to their feelings a talk which, in its constraint, was infinitely sad to both of them. One more reference was made to the state of things between them late that night, when Elizabeth had gone to her room, and the two young men had stumbled off to bed in such a state of sleep that they hardly felt the floor beneath their feet after a day s shooting. Mary drew her chair a little nearer to the fire, for the logs were burning low, and at this time of night it was hardly worth while to replenish them. Ralph was reading, but she had noticed for some time that his eyes instead of following the print were fixed rather above the page with an intensity of gloom that came to weigh upon her mind. She had not weakened in her resolve not to give way, for reflection had only made her more bitterly certain that, if she gave way, it would be to her own wish and not to his. But she had determined that there was no reason why he should suffer if her reticence were the cause of his suffering. Therefore, although she found it painful, she spoke: "You asked me if I had changed my mind about you, Ralph," she said. "I think there s only one thing. When you asked me to marry you, I don t think you meant it. That made me angry for the moment. Before, you d always spoken the truth." Ralph s book slid down upon his knee and fell upon the floor. He rested his forehead on his hand and looked into the fire. He was trying to recall the exact words in which he had made his proposal to Mary. "I never said I loved you," he said at last. She winced; but she respected him for saying what he did, for this, after all, was a fragment of the truth which she had vowed to live by. "And to me marriage without love doesn t seem worth while," she said. "Well, Mary, I m not going to press you," he said. "I see you don t want to marry me. But love don t we all talk a great deal of nonsense about it? What does one mean? I believe I care for you more genuinely than nine men out of ten care for the women they re in love with. It s only a story one makes up in one s mind about another person, and one knows all the time it isn t true. Of course one knows;	to say, baffled him so much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her arm and she withdrew it quietly. "You couldn t do it?" he asked. "No, I couldn t marry you," she replied. "You don t care for me?" She made no answer. "Well, Mary," he said, with a curious laugh, "I must be an arrant fool, for I thought you did." They walked for a minute or two in silence, and suddenly he turned to her, looked at her, and exclaimed: "I don t believe you, Mary. You re not telling me the truth." "I m too tired to argue, Ralph," she replied, turning her head away from him. "I ask you to believe what I say. I can t marry you; I don t want to marry you." The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had no course but to obey her. And as soon as the tone of her voice had died out, and the surprise faded from his mind, he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth, for he had but little vanity, and soon her refusal seemed a natural thing to him. He slipped through all the grades of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute gloom. Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life; he had failed with Katharine, and now he had failed with Mary. Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine, and with it a sense of exulting freedom, but this he checked instantly. No good had ever come to him from Katharine; his whole relationship with her had been made up of dreams; and as he thought of the little substance there had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the present catastrophe upon his dreams. "Haven t I always been thinking of Katharine while I was with Mary? I might have loved Mary if it hadn t been for that idiocy of mine. She cared for me once, I m certain of that, but I tormented her so with my humors that I let my chances slip, and now she won t risk marrying me. And this is what I ve made of my life nothing, nothing, nothing." The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to asseverate nothing, nothing, nothing. Mary thought that this silence was the silence of relief; his depression she ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted from her, leaving her in the company of William Rodney. She could not blame him for loving Katharine, but that, when he loved another, he should ask her to marry him that seemed to her the cruellest treachery. Their old friendship and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of character crumbled, and her whole past seemed foolish, herself weak and credulous, and Ralph merely the shell of an honest man. Oh, the past so much made up of Ralph; and now, as she saw, made up of something strange and false and other than she had thought it. She tried to recapture a saying she had made to help herself that morning, as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon; but she could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could remember the phrase. Something about truth was in it; how to see the truth is our great chance in this world. "If you don t want to marry me," Ralph now began again, without abruptness, with diffidence rather,<\|quote\|>"there is no need why we should cease to see each other, is there? Or would you rather that we should keep apart for the present?"</\|quote\|>"Keep apart? I don t know I must think about it." "Tell me one thing, Mary," he resumed; "have I done anything to make you change your mind about me?" She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural trust in him, revived by the deep and now melancholy tones of his voice, and to tell him of her love, and of what had changed it. But although it seemed likely that she would soon control her anger with him, the certainty that he did not love her, confirmed by every word of his proposal, forbade any freedom of speech. To hear him speak and to feel herself unable to reply, or constrained in her replies, was so painful that she longed for the time when she should be alone. A more pliant woman would have taken this chance of an explanation, whatever risks attached to it; but to one of Mary s firm and resolute temperament there was degradation in the idea of self-abandonment; let the waves of emotion rise ever so high, she could not shut her eyes to what she conceived to be the truth. Her silence puzzled Ralph. He searched his memory for words or deeds that might have made her think badly of him. In his present mood instances came but too quickly, and on top of them this culminating proof of his baseness that he had asked her to marry him when his reasons for such a proposal were selfish and half-hearted. "You needn t answer," he said grimly. "There are reasons enough, I know. But must	Night And Day
said Tibby.	No speaker	out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened	were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up	meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a	and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you	which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin s beside a landscape of Leader s, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming." They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you ve never--" She pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I can t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ve got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards." And then, turning her face to her sister s, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, "Oh, really--" She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. "Don t," sobbed Helen, "don t, don t, Meg, don t!" She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road,	Howards End. That was something like a dear little house! Didn t you think so, Aunt Juley?" "I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs. Munt, with a gracious dignity. "I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn t likely I should remember much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom." "Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all seems! And in the autumn there began that anti-Pauline movement--you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul." "You yet may," said Frieda despondently. Helen shook her head. "The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I m certain of anything it s of that." "One is certain of nothing but the truth of one s own emotions." The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin s beside a landscape of Leader s, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming." They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you ve never--" She pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I can t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ve got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards." And then, turning her face to her sister s, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, "Oh, really--" She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. "Don t," sobbed Helen, "don t, don t, Meg, don t!" She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. "Don t, don t do such a thing! I tell you not to--don t! I know--don t!" "What do you know?" "Panic and emptiness," sobbed Helen. "Don t!" Then Margaret thought, "Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved like this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying." She said: "But we would still see each other very--often, and you--" "It s not a thing like that," sobbed Helen. And she broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and crying. "What s happened to you?" called Margaret, following through the wind that gathers at sundown on the northern slopes of hills. "But it s stupid!" And suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape was blurred. But Helen turned back. "I don t know what s happened to either of us," said Margaret, wiping her eyes. "We must both have gone mad." Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed a little. "Look here, sit down." "All right; I ll sit down if you ll sit down." "There." (One kiss.) "Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?" "I do mean what I	she won t be overtired." "Oh, I do wonder--I do wonder whether she s taken the house." "I hope she hasn t been hasty." "So do I--oh, SO do I." "Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?" Frieda asked. "I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those Ducie Street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can t think why he doesn t keep on with it. But it s really for Evie that he went there, and now that Evie s going to be married--" "Ah!" "You ve never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How absurdly matrimonial you are!" "But sister to that Paul?" "Yes." "And to that Charles," said Mrs. Munt with feeling. "Oh, Helen, Helen, what a time that was!" Helen laughed. "Meg and I haven t got such tender hearts. If there s a chance of a cheap house, we go for it." "Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece s train. You see, it is coming towards us--coming, coming; and, when it gets to Corfe, it will actually go THROUGH the downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we walk over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it coming on the other side. Shall we?" Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the three. Margaret s train reappeared as promised, and was greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the middle distance, and there it had been planned that Tibby should meet her, and drive her, and a tea-basket, up to join them. "You see," continued Helen to her cousin, "the Wilcoxes collect houses as your Victor collects tadpoles. They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shropshire; four, Charles has a house in Hilton; and five, another near Epsom; and six, Evie will have a house when she marries, and probably a pied-a-terre in the country--which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa makes eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That was something like a dear little house! Didn t you think so, Aunt Juley?" "I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs. Munt, with a gracious dignity. "I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn t likely I should remember much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom." "Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all seems! And in the autumn there began that anti-Pauline movement--you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul." "You yet may," said Frieda despondently. Helen shook her head. "The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I m certain of anything it s of that." "One is certain of nothing but the truth of one s own emotions." The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin s beside a landscape of Leader s, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming." They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you ve never--" She pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I can t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ve got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards." And then, turning her face to her sister s, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, "Oh, really--" She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. "Don t," sobbed Helen, "don t, don t, Meg, don t!" She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. "Don t, don t do such a thing! I tell you not to--don t! I know--don t!" "What do you know?" "Panic and emptiness," sobbed Helen. "Don t!" Then Margaret thought, "Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved like this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying." She said: "But we would still see each other very--often, and you--" "It s not a thing like that," sobbed Helen. And she broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and crying. "What s happened to you?" called Margaret, following through the wind that gathers at sundown on the northern slopes of hills. "But it s stupid!" And suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape was blurred. But Helen turned back. "I don t know what s happened to either of us," said Margaret, wiping her eyes. "We must both have gone mad." Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed a little. "Look here, sit down." "All right; I ll sit down if you ll sit down." "There." (One kiss.) "Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?" "I do mean what I said. Don t; it wouldn t do." "Oh, Helen, stop saying don t ! It s ignorant. It s as if your head wasn t out of the slime. Don t is probably what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast." Helen was silent. "Well?" "Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I ll have got my head out of the slime." "That s better. Well, where shall I begin? When I arrived at Waterloo--no, I ll go back before that, because I m anxious you should know everything from the first. The first was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr. Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing, which men can t help any more than we can. You know--at least, I know in my own case--when a man has said to me, So-and-so s a pretty girl, I am seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so, and long to tweak her ear. It s a tiresome feeling, but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn t only this in Mr. Wilcox s case, I gather now." "Then you love him?" Margaret considered. "It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you," she said. "The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I ve known and liked him steadily for nearly three years." "But loved him?" Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyse feelings while they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated honestly, and said, "No." "But you will?" "Yes," said Margaret, "of that I m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me." "And have settled to marry him?" "I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say." Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. "It is ever since Paul," she said finally. "But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?" "But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened--the	it coming on the other side. Shall we?" Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the three. Margaret s train reappeared as promised, and was greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the middle distance, and there it had been planned that Tibby should meet her, and drive her, and a tea-basket, up to join them. "You see," continued Helen to her cousin, "the Wilcoxes collect houses as your Victor collects tadpoles. They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shropshire; four, Charles has a house in Hilton; and five, another near Epsom; and six, Evie will have a house when she marries, and probably a pied-a-terre in the country--which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa makes eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That was something like a dear little house! Didn t you think so, Aunt Juley?" "I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs. Munt, with a gracious dignity. "I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn t likely I should remember much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom." "Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all seems! And in the autumn there began that anti-Pauline movement--you, and Frieda, and Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul." "You yet may," said Frieda despondently. Helen shook her head. "The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I m certain of anything it s of that." "One is certain of nothing but the truth of one s own emotions." The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin s beside a landscape of Leader s, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. "Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming." They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. "Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. "Have you got the house?" Margaret shook her head. "Oh, what a nuisance! So we re as we were?" "Not exactly." She got out, looking tired. "Some mystery,"<\|quote\|>said Tibby.</\|quote\|>"We are to be enlightened presently." Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might lead the pony through. "It s just like a widower," she remarked. "They ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife s friends." Margaret s face flashed despair. "That type--" She broke off with a cry. "Meg, not anything wrong with you?" "Wait one minute," said Margaret, whispering always. "But you ve never conceivably--you ve never--" She pulled herself together. "Tibby, hurry up through; I can t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we ve got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards." And then, turning her face to her sister s, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, "Oh, really--" She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. "Don t," sobbed Helen, "don t, don t, Meg, don t!" She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. "Don t, don t do such a thing! I tell you not to--don t! I know--don t!" "What do you know?" "Panic and emptiness," sobbed Helen. "Don t!" Then Margaret thought, "Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved like this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying." She said: "But we would still see each other very--often, and you--" "It s not a thing like that," sobbed Helen. And she broke right away and wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and crying. "What s happened to you?" called Margaret, following through the wind that gathers at sundown on	Howards End
Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.	No speaker	cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs.	least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon	be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business.	is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are	for it will be in proportion to their family and income." By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering Mr. Ferrars s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on, and he said so. "This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an t the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel s general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings "Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his	wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from _her_, she would have been very glad to be spared herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. "The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income." By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering Mr. Ferrars s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on, and he said so. "This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an t the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel s general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings "Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them." "You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a faint smile. "Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw." "He spoke of its being out of repair." "Well, and whose fault is that? why don t he repair it? who should do it but himself?" They were interrupted by the servant s coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said, "Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is	informed? Is it so?;" Elinor told him that it was. "The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty," he replied, with great feeling, "of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be doing what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day s post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance; but _that_, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable. It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200 per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting it to him, will be very great. Pray assure him of it." Elinor s astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry; and _she_, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it! Her emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different cause; but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward s principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from _her_, she would have been very glad to be spared herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. "The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income." By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering Mr. Ferrars s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on, and he said so. "This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an t the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel s general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings "Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them." "You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a faint smile. "Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw." "He spoke of its being out of repair." "Well, and whose fault is that? why don t he repair it? who should do it but himself?" They were interrupted by the servant s coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said, "Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it." Marianne had left the room before the conversation began. "Certainly, ma am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention it at present to any body else." "Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. "Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn to-day." "No, ma am, not even Lucy if you please. One day s delay will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_ directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination." This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed; "Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? sure, he is the proper person." Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings s speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion. "Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself." "And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you" (seeing her preparing to write.) "You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed." And away she went; but returning again in a moment, "I have just been thinking of Betty s sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady s maid, I	which together prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward s principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from _her_, she would have been very glad to be spared herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. "The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income." By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering Mr. Ferrars s marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on, and he said so. "This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."<\|quote\|>Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER XL.</\|quote\|>"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart." "Thank you, ma am," said Elinor. "It _is_ a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life." "Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an t the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen." "You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel s general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur." "Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings "Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there	Sense And Sensibility
Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:	No speaker	for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you	talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to	staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark	I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such	dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, "that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up." She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies. "I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to." "You want to try not to?" "Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here." Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said. She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that.	me. Granny says I must certainly go." "Granny would, of course. And I say it's a shame you're going to miss the little oyster supper I'd planned for you at Delmonico's next Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lot of jolly people." She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer. "Ah--that does tempt me! Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers's I've not met a single artist since I've been here." "What kind of artists? I know one or two painters, very good fellows, that I could bring to see you if you'd allow me," said Archer boldly. "Painters? Are there painters in New York?" asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile: "That would be charming. But I was really thinking of dramatic artists, singers, actors, musicians. My husband's house was always full of them." She said the words "my husband" as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, "that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up." She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies. "I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to." "You want to try not to?" "Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here." Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said. She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that. If you knew how I hate to be different!" Her face had grown as sombre as a tragic mask. She leaned forward, clasping her knee in her thin hands, and looking away from him into remote dark distances. "I want to get away from it all," she insisted. He waited a moment and cleared his throat. "I know. Mr. Letterblair has told me." "Ah?" "That's the reason I've come. He asked me to--you see I'm in the firm." She looked slightly surprised, and then her eyes brightened. "You mean you can manage it for me? I can talk to you instead of Mr. Letterblair? Oh, that will be so much easier!" Her tone touched him, and his confidence grew with his self-satisfaction. He perceived that she had spoken of business to Beaufort simply to get rid of him; and to have routed Beaufort was something of a triumph. "I am here to talk about it," he repeated. She sat silent, her head still propped by the arm that rested on the back of the sofa. Her face looked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed by the rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of a sudden, as a pathetic	see her privately. He had therefore no one but himself to blame if she had opened her doors to other visitors; and he entered the drawing-room with the dogged determination to make Beaufort feel himself in the way, and to outstay him. The banker stood leaning against the mantelshelf, which was draped with an old embroidery held in place by brass candelabra containing church candles of yellowish wax. He had thrust his chest out, supporting his shoulders against the mantel and resting his weight on one large patent-leather foot. As Archer entered he was smiling and looking down on his hostess, who sat on a sofa placed at right angles to the chimney. A table banked with flowers formed a screen behind it, and against the orchids and azaleas which the young man recognised as tributes from the Beaufort hot-houses, Madame Olenska sat half-reclined, her head propped on a hand and her wide sleeve leaving the arm bare to the elbow. It was usual for ladies who received in the evenings to wear what were called "simple dinner dresses": a close-fitting armour of whale-boned silk, slightly open in the neck, with lace ruffles filling in the crack, and tight sleeves with a flounce uncovering just enough wrist to show an Etruscan gold bracelet or a velvet band. But Madame Olenska, heedless of tradition, was attired in a long robe of red velvet bordered about the chin and down the front with glossy black fur. Archer remembered, on his last visit to Paris, seeing a portrait by the new painter, Carolus Duran, whose pictures were the sensation of the Salon, in which the lady wore one of these bold sheath-like robes with her chin nestling in fur. There was something perverse and provocative in the notion of fur worn in the evening in a heated drawing-room, and in the combination of a muffled throat and bare arms; but the effect was undeniably pleasing. "Lord love us--three whole days at Skuytercliff!" Beaufort was saying in his loud sneering voice as Archer entered. "You'd better take all your furs, and a hot-water-bottle." "Why? Is the house so cold?" she asked, holding out her left hand to Archer in a way mysteriously suggesting that she expected him to kiss it. "No; but the missus is," said Beaufort, nodding carelessly to the young man. "But I thought her so kind. She came herself to invite me. Granny says I must certainly go." "Granny would, of course. And I say it's a shame you're going to miss the little oyster supper I'd planned for you at Delmonico's next Sunday, with Campanini and Scalchi and a lot of jolly people." She looked doubtfully from the banker to Archer. "Ah--that does tempt me! Except the other evening at Mrs. Struthers's I've not met a single artist since I've been here." "What kind of artists? I know one or two painters, very good fellows, that I could bring to see you if you'd allow me," said Archer boldly. "Painters? Are there painters in New York?" asked Beaufort, in a tone implying that there could be none since he did not buy their pictures; and Madame Olenska said to Archer, with her grave smile: "That would be charming. But I was really thinking of dramatic artists, singers, actors, musicians. My husband's house was always full of them." She said the words "my husband" as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, "that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up." She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies. "I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to." "You want to try not to?" "Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here." Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said. She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that. If you knew how I hate to be different!" Her face had grown as sombre as a tragic mask. She leaned forward, clasping her knee in her thin hands, and looking away from him into remote dark distances. "I want to get away from it all," she insisted. He waited a moment and cleared his throat. "I know. Mr. Letterblair has told me." "Ah?" "That's the reason I've come. He asked me to--you see I'm in the firm." She looked slightly surprised, and then her eyes brightened. "You mean you can manage it for me? I can talk to you instead of Mr. Letterblair? Oh, that will be so much easier!" Her tone touched him, and his confidence grew with his self-satisfaction. He perceived that she had spoken of business to Beaufort simply to get rid of him; and to have routed Beaufort was something of a triumph. "I am here to talk about it," he repeated. She sat silent, her head still propped by the arm that rested on the back of the sofa. Her face looked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed by the rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of a sudden, as a pathetic and even pitiful figure. "Now we're coming to hard facts," he thought, conscious in himself of the same instinctive recoil that he had so often criticised in his mother and her contemporaries. How little practice he had had in dealing with unusual situations! Their very vocabulary was unfamiliar to him, and seemed to belong to fiction and the stage. In face of what was coming he felt as awkward and embarrassed as a boy. After a pause Madame Olenska broke out with unexpected vehemence: "I want to be free; I want to wipe out all the past." "I understand that." Her face warmed. "Then you'll help me?" "First--" he hesitated--" "perhaps I ought to know a little more." She seemed surprised. "You know about my husband--my life with him?" He made a sign of assent. "Well--then--what more is there? In this country are such things tolerated? I'm a Protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases." "Certainly not." They were both silent again, and Archer felt the spectre of Count Olenski's letter grimacing hideously between them. The letter filled only half a page, and was just what he had described it to be in speaking of it to Mr. Letterblair: the vague charge of an angry blackguard. But how much truth was behind it? Only Count Olenski's wife could tell. "I've looked through the papers you gave to Mr. Letterblair," he said at length. "Well--can there be anything more abominable?" "No." She changed her position slightly, screening her eyes with her lifted hand. "Of course you know," Archer continued, "that if your husband chooses to fight the case--as he threatens to--" "Yes--?" "He can say things--things that might be unpl--might be disagreeable to you: say them publicly, so that they would get about, and harm you even if--" "If--?" "I mean: no matter how unfounded they were." She paused for a long interval; so long that, not wishing to keep his eyes on her shaded face, he had time to imprint on his mind the exact shape of her other hand, the one on her knee, and every detail of the three rings on her fourth and fifth fingers; among which, he noticed, a wedding ring did not appear. "What harm could such accusations, even if he made them publicly, do me here?" It was on his lips to exclaim: "My poor child--far more harm than anywhere else!" Instead,	of them." She said the words "my husband" as if no sinister associations were connected with them, and in a tone that seemed almost to sigh over the lost delights of her married life. Archer looked at her perplexedly, wondering if it were lightness or dissimulation that enabled her to touch so easily on the past at the very moment when she was risking her reputation in order to break with it. "I do think," she went on, addressing both men, "that the imprevu adds to one's enjoyment. It's perhaps a mistake to see the same people every day." "It's confoundedly dull, anyhow; New York is dying of dullness," Beaufort grumbled. "And when I try to liven it up for you, you go back on me. Come--think better of it! Sunday is your last chance, for Campanini leaves next week for Baltimore and Philadelphia; and I've a private room, and a Steinway, and they'll sing all night for me." "How delicious! May I think it over, and write to you tomorrow morning?" She spoke amiably, yet with the least hint of dismissal in her voice. Beaufort evidently felt it, and being unused to dismissals, stood staring at her with an obstinate line between his eyes. "Why not now?" "It's too serious a question to decide at this late hour." "Do you call it late?" She returned his glance coolly. "Yes; because I have still to talk business with Mr. Archer for a little while." "Ah,"<\|quote\|>Beaufort snapped. There was no appeal from her tone, and with a slight shrug he recovered his composure, took her hand, which he kissed with a practised air, and calling out from the threshold:</\|quote\|>"I say, Newland, if you can persuade the Countess to stop in town of course you're included in the supper," left the room with his heavy important step. For a moment Archer fancied that Mr. Letterblair must have told her of his coming; but the irrelevance of her next remark made him change his mind. "You know painters, then? You live in their milieu?" she asked, her eyes full of interest. "Oh, not exactly. I don't know that the arts have a milieu here, any of them; they're more like a very thinly settled outskirt." "But you care for such things?" "Immensely. When I'm in Paris or London I never miss an exhibition. I try to keep up." She looked down at the tip of the little satin boot that peeped from her long draperies. "I used to care immensely too: my life was full of such things. But now I want to try not to." "You want to try not to?" "Yes: I want to cast off all my old life, to become just like everybody else here." Archer reddened. "You'll never be like everybody else," he said. She raised her straight eyebrows a little. "Ah, don't say that. If you knew how I hate to be different!" Her face had grown as sombre as a tragic mask. She leaned forward, clasping her knee in her thin hands, and looking away from him into remote dark distances. "I want to get away from it all," she insisted. He waited a moment and cleared his throat. "I know. Mr. Letterblair has told me." "Ah?" "That's the reason I've come. He asked me to--you see I'm in the firm." She looked slightly surprised, and then her eyes brightened. "You mean you can manage it for me? I can talk to you instead of Mr. Letterblair? Oh, that will be so much easier!" Her tone touched him, and his confidence grew with his self-satisfaction. He perceived that she had spoken of business to Beaufort simply to get rid of him; and to have routed Beaufort was something of a triumph. "I am here to talk about it," he repeated. She sat silent, her head still propped by the arm that rested on the back of the sofa. Her face looked pale and extinguished, as if dimmed by the rich red of her dress. She struck Archer, of a sudden, as a pathetic and even pitiful figure. "Now we're coming to hard facts," he thought, conscious in himself of the same instinctive recoil that he had so often criticised in his mother and her contemporaries. How little practice he had had in dealing with unusual situations! Their very vocabulary was unfamiliar to him, and seemed to belong to fiction and the stage. In face of what was coming he felt as awkward and embarrassed as a boy. After a pause Madame Olenska broke out with unexpected vehemence: "I want to be free; I want to wipe out all the past." "I understand that." Her face warmed. "Then you'll help me?" "First--" he hesitated--" "perhaps I ought to know a little more." She seemed surprised. "You know about my husband--my life with him?" He made a sign of assent. "Well--then--what more is there? In this country are such things tolerated? I'm a Protestant--our church does not forbid divorce in such cases." "Certainly not." They were both silent again, and Archer	The Age Of Innocence
“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”	Crimble	John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a	are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to	wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first	“As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After	Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage	visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage and addressing Hugh from the strong ground of an initiation already complete, quite sped him on the way. Hugh clearly made no attempt to veil the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while	having then at last just taken you in in your so apparent perfection, I should feel it the better part of valour simply to mount my ‘bike’ again and spin away?” “I should be sure that at the end of the avenue you’d turn right round and come back. You’d think again of Mr. Bender.” “Whom I don’t, however, you see--if he’s prowling off there--in the least want to meet.” Crimble made the point with gaiety. “I don’t know what I mightn’t do to him--and yet it’s not of my temptation to violence, after all, that I’m most afraid. It’s of the brutal mistake of one’s breaking--with one’s priggish, precious modernity and one’s possibly futile discriminations--into a _general_ situation or composition, as we say, so serene and sound and right. What should one do here, out of respect for that felicity, but hold one’s breath and walk on tip-toe? The very celebrations and consecrations, as you tell me, instinctively stay outside. I saw that all,” the young man went on with more weight in his ardour, “I saw it, while we talked in London, as your natural setting and your native air--and now ten minutes on the spot have made it sink into my spirit. You’re a case, all together, of enchanted harmony, of perfect equilibrium--there’s nothing to be done or said.” His friend listened to this eloquence with her eyes lowered, then raising them to meet, with a vague insistence, his own; after which something she had seen there appeared to determine in her another motion. She indicated the small landscape that Mr. Bender had, by Lady Sandgate’s report, rapidly studied and denounced. “For what do you take that little picture?” Hugh Crimble went over and looked. “Why, don’t you know? It’s a jolly little Vandermeer of Delft.” “It’s not a base imitation?” He looked again, but appeared at a loss. “An imitation of Vandermeer?” “Mr. Bender thinks of Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage and addressing Hugh from the strong ground of an initiation already complete, quite sped him on the way. Hugh clearly made no attempt to veil the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight awkwardness while she only waited: “You certainly mustn’t let yourself--between us all--be worked to death.” “Oh, such days as this--I” She made light enough of her burden. “They don’t come often to _me_ at least, Lady Grace! I hadn’t grasped in advance the scale of your fête,” he went on; “but since I’ve the great luck to find you alone--!” He paused for breath, however, before the full sequence. She helped him out as through common kindness, but it was a trifle colourless. “Alone or in company, Lord John, I’m always very glad to see you.” “Then that assurance helps me to wonder if you don’t perhaps gently guess what it is I want to say.” This time indeed she left him to his wonder, so that he had to support himself. “I’ve tried, all considerately--these three months--to let you see for yourself how I feel. I feel very strongly, Lady Grace; so that at last” --and his impatient sincerity took after another instant the jump-- “well, I regularly worship you. You’re my absolute ideal. I think of you the whole time.” She measured out consideration as if it had been a yard of pretty ribbon. “Are you sure you _know_ me enough?” “I think I know a perfect woman when I see one!” Nothing now at least could have been more prompt, and while a decent pity for such a mistake showed in her smile he followed it up. “Isn’t what you rather mean that you haven’t cared sufficiently to know _me?_ If so, that can be little by little mended, Lady Grace.” He was in fact altogether gallant about it. “I’m aware of the limits of what I have to show or to offer, but I defy you to find a limit to my possible devotion.” She deferred to that, but taking it in a lower key. “I believe you’d be very good to me.” “Well, isn’t _that_ something to start with?” --he fairly pounced on it. “I’ll do any blest thing in life you like, I’ll accept any condition you impose, if you’ll only tell me you see your way.” “Shouldn’t I have a little more first to see yours?” she asked. “When you say you’ll do anything in life I like, isn’t there anything you yourself want strongly enough to do?” He cast a stare about on the suggestions of the scene. “Anything that will make money, you	Cuyp.” It made the young man ring out: “Then Mr. Bender’s doubly dangerous!” “Singly is enough!” Lady Grace laughed. “But you see you _have_ to speak.” “Oh, to _him_, rather, after that--if you’ll just take me to him.” “Yes then,” she said; but even while she spoke Lord John, who had returned, by the terrace, from his quarter of an hour passed with Lady Imber, was there practically between them; a fact that she had to notice for her other visitor, to whom she was hastily reduced to naming him. His lordship eagerly made the most of this tribute of her attention, which had reached his ear; he treated it--her “Oh Lord John!” --as a direct greeting. “Ah Lady Grace! I came back particularly to find you.” She could but explain her predicament. “I was taking Mr. Crimble to see the pictures.” And then more pointedly, as her manner had been virtually an introduction of that gentleman, an introduction which Lord John’s mere noncommittal stare was as little as possible a response to: “Mr. Crimble’s one of the quite new connoisseurs.” “Oh, I’m at the very lowest round of the ladder. But I aspire!” Hugh laughed. “You’ll mount!” said Lady Grace with friendly confidence. He took it again with gay deprecation. “Ah, if by that time there’s anything left here to mount _on!_” “Let us hope there will be at least what Mr. Bender, poor man, won’t have been able to carry off.” To which Lady Grace added, as to strike a helpful spark from the personage who had just joined them, but who had the air of wishing to preserve his detachment: “It’s to Lord John that we owe Mr. Bender’s acquaintance.” Hugh looked at the gentleman to whom they were so indebted. “Then do you happen to know, sir, what your friend means to _do_ with his spoil?” The question got itself but dryly treated, as if it might be a commercially calculating or interested one. “Oh, not sell it again.” “Then ship it to New York?” the inquirer pursued, defining himself somehow as not snubbed and, from this point, not snubbable. That appearance failed none the less to deprive Lord John of a betrayed relish for being able to displease Lady Grace’s odd guest by large assent. “As fast as ever he can--and you can land things there _now_, can’t you? in three or four days.” “I dare say. But can’t he be induced to have a little mercy?” Hugh sturdily pursued. Lord John pushed out his lips. “A ‘little’? How much do you want?” “Well, one wants to be able somehow to stay his hand.” “I doubt if you can any more stay Mr. Bender’s hand than you can empty his purse.” “Ah, the Despoilers!” said Crimble with strong expression. “But it’s _we_,” he added, “who are base.” “‘Base’?” --and Lord John’s surprise was apparently genuine.<\|quote\|>“To want only to ‘do business,’ I mean, with our treasures, with our glories.”</\|quote\|>Hugh’s words exhaled such a sense of peril as to draw at once Lady Grace. “Ah, but if we’re above that _here_, as you know------!” He stood smilingly corrected and contrite. “Of course I know--but you must forgive me if I have it on the brain. And show me first of all, won’t you? the Moretto of Brescia.” “You know then about the Moretto of Brescia?” “Why, didn’t you tell me yourself?” It went on between them for the moment quite as if there had been no Lord John. “Probably, yes,” she recalled; “so how I must have swaggered!” After which she turned to the other visitor with a kindness strained clear of urgency. “Will you also come?” He confessed to a difficulty--which his whole face begged her also to take account of. “I hoped you’d be at leisure--for something I’ve so at heart!” This had its effect; she took a rapid decision and turned persuasively to Crimble--for whom, in like manner, there must have been something in _her_ face. “Let Mr. Bender himself then show you. And there are things in the library too.” “Oh yes, there are things in the library.” Lord John, happy in his gained advantage and addressing Hugh from the strong ground of an initiation already complete, quite sped him on the way. Hugh clearly made no attempt to veil the penetration with which he was moved to look from one of these counsellors to the other, though with a ready “Thank-you!” for Lady Grace he the next instant started in pursuit of Mr. Bender. V “Your friend seems remarkably hot!” Lord John remarked to his young hostess as soon as they had been left together. “He has cycled twenty miles. And indeed,” she smiled, “he does appear to care for what he cares for!” Her companion then, during a moment’s silence, might have been noting the emphasis of her assent. “Have you known him long?” “No--not long.” “Nor seen him often?” “Only once--till now.” “Oh!” said Lord John with another pause. But he soon proceeded. “Let us leave him then to cool! I haven’t cycled twenty miles, but I’ve motored forty very much in the hope of _this_, Lady Grace--the chance of being able to assure you that I too care very much for what I care for.” To which he added on an easier note, as to carry off a slight	The Outcry
"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"	Anne Shirley	Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was	be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and	into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members	of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne	money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again	tears in her eyes. Not for worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye see those tears. "But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I saw Diana go out alone," she said mournfully that night. "I thought how splendid it would have been if Diana had only been going to study for the Entrance, too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she had cherished against him was gone--gone just when she most needed its sustaining power. It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emotion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel the old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had witnessed its last spasmodic flicker. Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it. But it was too late. And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana, should ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she hadn't been so proud and horrid! She determined to "shroud her feelings in deepest oblivion," and it may be stated here and now that she did it, so successfully that Gilbert, who possibly was not quite so indifferent as he seemed, could not console himself with any belief that Anne felt his retaliatory scorn. The only poor comfort he had was that she snubbed Charlie Sloane, unmercifully, continually, and undeservedly. Otherwise the winter passed away in a round of pleasant duties and studies. For Anne the days slipped by	is going to happen in this uncertain world, and it's just as well to be prepared. So you can join the Queen's class if you like, Anne." "Oh, Marilla, thank you." Anne flung her arms about Marilla's waist and looked up earnestly into her face. "I'm extremely grateful to you and Matthew. And I'll study as hard as I can and do my very best to be a credit to you. I warn you not to expect much in geometry, but I think I can hold my own in anything else if I work hard." "I dare say you'll get along well enough. Miss Stacy says you are bright and diligent." Not for worlds would Marilla have told Anne just what Miss Stacy had said about her; that would have been to pamper vanity. "You needn't rush to any extreme of killing yourself over your books. There is no hurry. You won't be ready to try the Entrance for a year and a half yet. But it's well to begin in time and be thoroughly grounded, Miss Stacy says." "I shall take more interest than ever in my studies now," said Anne blissfully, "because I have a purpose in life. Mr. Allan says everybody should have a purpose in life and pursue it faithfully. Only he says we must first make sure that it is a worthy purpose. I would call it a worthy purpose to want to be a teacher like Miss Stacy, wouldn't you, Marilla? I think it's a very noble profession." The Queen's class was organized in due time. Gilbert Blythe, Anne Shirley, Ruby Gillis, Jane Andrews, Josie Pye, Charlie Sloane, and Moody Spurgeon MacPherson joined it. Diana Barry did not, as her parents did not intend to send her to Queen's. This seemed nothing short of a calamity to Anne. Never, since the night on which Minnie May had had the croup, had she and Diana been separated in anything. On the evening when the Queen's class first remained in school for the extra lessons and Anne saw Diana go slowly out with the others, to walk home alone through the Birch Path and Violet Vale, it was all the former could do to keep her seat and refrain from rushing impulsively after her chum. A lump came into her throat, and she hastily retired behind the pages of her uplifted Latin grammar to hide the tears in her eyes. Not for worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye see those tears. "But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I saw Diana go out alone," she said mournfully that night. "I thought how splendid it would have been if Diana had only been going to study for the Entrance, too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she had cherished against him was gone--gone just when she most needed its sustaining power. It was in vain that she recalled every incident and emotion of that memorable occasion and tried to feel the old satisfying anger. That day by the pond had witnessed its last spasmodic flicker. Anne realized that she had forgiven and forgotten without knowing it. But it was too late. And at least neither Gilbert nor anybody else, not even Diana, should ever suspect how sorry she was and how much she wished she hadn't been so proud and horrid! She determined to "shroud her feelings in deepest oblivion," and it may be stated here and now that she did it, so successfully that Gilbert, who possibly was not quite so indifferent as he seemed, could not console himself with any belief that Anne felt his retaliatory scorn. The only poor comfort he had was that she snubbed Charlie Sloane, unmercifully, continually, and undeservedly. Otherwise the winter passed away in a round of pleasant duties and studies. For Anne the days slipped by like golden beads on the necklace of the year. She was happy, eager, interested; there were lessons to be learned and honor to be won; delightful books to read; new pieces to be practiced for the Sunday-school choir; pleasant Saturday afternoons at the manse with Mrs. Allan; and then, almost before Anne realized it, spring had come again to Green Gables and all the world was abloom once more. Studies palled just a wee bit then; the Queen's class, left behind in school while the others scattered to green lanes and leafy wood cuts and meadow byways, looked wistfully out of the windows and discovered that Latin verbs and French exercises had somehow lost the tang and zest they had possessed in the crisp winter months. Even Anne and Gilbert lagged and grew indifferent. Teacher and taught were alike glad when the term was ended and the glad vacation days stretched rosily before them. "But you've done good work this past year," Miss Stacy told them on the last evening, "and you deserve a good, jolly vacation. Have the best time you can in the out-of-door world and lay in a good stock of health and vitality and ambition to carry you through next year. It will be the tug of war, you know--the last year before the Entrance." "Are you going to be back next year, Miss Stacy?" asked Josie Pye. Josie Pye never scrupled to ask questions; in this instance the rest of the class felt grateful to her; none of them would have dared to ask it of Miss Stacy, but all wanted to, for there had been alarming rumors running at large through the school for some time that Miss Stacy was not coming back the next year--that she had been offered a position in the grade school of her own home district and meant to accept. The Queen's class listened in breathless suspense for her answer. "Yes, I think I will," said Miss Stacy. "I thought of taking another school, but I have decided to come back to Avonlea. To tell the truth, I've grown so interested in my pupils here that I found I couldn't leave them. So I'll stay and see you through." "Hurrah!" said Moody Spurgeon. Moody Spurgeon had never been so carried away by his feelings before, and he blushed uncomfortably every time he thought about it for a week. "Oh,	Entrance, too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs. Lynde isn't exactly a comforting person sometimes, but there's no doubt she says a great many very true things. And I think the Queen's class is going to be extremely interesting. Jane and Ruby are just going to study to be teachers. That is the height of their ambition. Ruby says she will only teach for two years after she gets through, and then she intends to be married. Jane says she will devote her whole life to teaching, and never, never marry, because you are paid a salary for teaching, but a husband won't pay you anything, and growls if you ask for a share in the egg and butter money. I expect Jane speaks from mournful experience, for Mrs. Lynde says that her father is a perfect old crank, and meaner than second skimmings. Josie Pye says she is just going to college for education's sake, because she won't have to earn her own living; she says of course it is different with orphans who are living on charity--_they_ have to hustle. Moody Spurgeon is going to be a minister. Mrs. Lynde says he couldn't be anything else with a name like that to live up to. I hope it isn't wicked of me, Marilla, but really the thought of Moody Spurgeon being a minister makes me laugh. He's such a funny-looking boy with that big fat face, and his little blue eyes, and his ears sticking out like flaps. But perhaps he will be more intellectual looking when he grows up. Charlie Sloane says he's going to go into politics and be a member of Parliament, but Mrs. Lynde says he'll never succeed at that, because the Sloanes are all honest people, and it's only rascals that get on in politics nowadays." "What is Gilbert Blythe going to be?" queried Marilla, seeing that Anne was opening her Caesar.<\|quote\|>"I don't happen to know what Gilbert Blythe's ambition in life is--if he has any,"</\|quote\|>said Anne scornfully. There was open rivalry between Gilbert and Anne now. Previously the rivalry had been rather one-sided, but there was no longer any doubt that Gilbert was as determined to be first in class as Anne was. He was a foeman worthy of her steel. The other members of the class tacitly acknowledged their superiority, and never dreamed of trying to compete with them. Since the day by the pond when she had refused to listen to his plea for forgiveness, Gilbert, save for the aforesaid determined rivalry, had evinced no recognition whatever of the existence of Anne Shirley. He talked and jested with the other girls, exchanged books and puzzles with them, discussed lessons and plans, sometimes walked home with one or the other of them from prayer meeting or Debating Club. But Anne Shirley he simply ignored, and Anne found out that it is not pleasant to be ignored. It was in vain that she told herself with a toss of her head that she did not care. Deep down in her wayward, feminine little heart she knew that she did care, and that if she had that chance of the Lake of Shining Waters again she would answer very differently. All at once, as it seemed, and to her secret dismay, she found that the old resentment she	Anne Of Green Gables
"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."	Mr. Hastings	it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did	depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's	the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a	Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they	"Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look	sees what do you think, _mon ami?_" I shook my head. "In a moment, he has torn the letter into long thin strips, and rolling them up into spills he thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other spills in the vase on the mantle-piece." I uttered an exclamation. "No one would think of looking there," Poirot continued. "And he will be able, at his leisure, to come back and destroy this solitary piece of evidence against him." "Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom, under our very noses?" I cried. Poirot nodded. "Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my last link,' and I owe that very fortunate discovery to you." "To me?" "Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand shook as I was straightening the ornaments on the mantelpiece?" "Yes, but I don't see" "No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I remembered that earlier in the morning, when we had been there together, I had straightened all the objects on the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, someone else had touched them." "Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was wise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth." "And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you gave me two reasons why Miss Howard could not have committed the crime!" "And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For a long time they were a stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact: that she and Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have committed the crime single-handed, but the	ignorant of where the danger lies. She decides to say nothing to her husband, but sits down and writes to her solicitor, asking him to come on the morrow, and she also determines to destroy immediately the will which she has just made. She keeps the fatal letter." "It was to discover that letter, then, that her husband forced the lock of the despatch-case?" "Yes, and from the enormous risk he ran we can see how fully he realized its importance. That letter excepted, there was absolutely nothing to connect him with the crime." "There's only one thing I can't make out, why didn't he destroy it at once when he got hold of it?" "Because he did not dare take the biggest risk of all that of keeping it on his own person." "I don't understand." "Look at it from his point of view. I have discovered that there were only five short minutes in which he could have taken it the five minutes immediately before our own arrival on the scene, for before that time Annie was brushing the stairs, and would have seen anyone who passed going to the right wing. Figure to yourself the scene! He enters the room, unlocking the door by means of one of the other doorkeys they were all much alike. He hurries to the despatch-case it is locked, and the keys are nowhere to be seen. That is a terrible blow to him, for it means that his presence in the room cannot be concealed as he had hoped. But he sees clearly that everything must be risked for the sake of that damning piece of evidence. Quickly, he forces the lock with a penknife, and turns over the papers until he finds what he is looking for." "But now a fresh dilemma arises: he dare not keep that piece of paper on him. He may be seen leaving the room he may be searched. If the paper is found on him, it is certain doom. Probably, at this minute, too, he hears the sounds below of Mr. Wells and John leaving the boudoir. He must act quickly. Where can he hide this terrible slip of paper? The contents of the waste-paper-basket are kept and in any case, are sure to be examined. There are no means of destroying it; and he dare not keep it. He looks round, and he sees what do you think, _mon ami?_" I shook my head. "In a moment, he has torn the letter into long thin strips, and rolling them up into spills he thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other spills in the vase on the mantle-piece." I uttered an exclamation. "No one would think of looking there," Poirot continued. "And he will be able, at his leisure, to come back and destroy this solitary piece of evidence against him." "Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom, under our very noses?" I cried. Poirot nodded. "Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my last link,' and I owe that very fortunate discovery to you." "To me?" "Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand shook as I was straightening the ornaments on the mantelpiece?" "Yes, but I don't see" "No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I remembered that earlier in the morning, when we had been there together, I had straightened all the objects on the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, someone else had touched them." "Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was wise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth." "And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you gave me two reasons why Miss Howard could not have committed the crime!" "And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For a long time they were a stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact: that she and Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have committed the crime single-handed, but the reasons against that did not debar her from being an accomplice. And, then, there was that rather over-vehement hatred of hers! It concealed a very opposite emotion. There was, undoubtedly, a tie of passion between them long before he came to Styles. They had already arranged their infamous plot that he should marry this rich, but rather foolish old lady, induce her to make a will leaving her money to him, and then gain their ends by a very cleverly conceived crime. If all had gone as they planned, they would probably have left England, and lived together on their poor victim's money." "They are a very astute and unscrupulous pair. While suspicion was to be directed against him, she would be making quiet preparations for a very different _d nouement_. She arrives from Middlingham with all the compromising items in her possession. No suspicion attaches to her. No notice is paid to her coming and going in the house. She hides the strychnine and glasses in John's room. She puts the beard in the attic. She will see to it that sooner or later they are duly discovered." "I don't quite see why they tried to fix the blame on John," I remarked. "It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime home to Lawrence." "Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of schemers." "His manner was unfortunate," I observed thoughtfully. "Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?" "No." "You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the crime?" "No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!" "Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when I asked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were the bromide powders which she had made up, and her clever male impersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us. There was really more evidence against her than anyone else." "You are joking, Poirot!" "No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he first entered his mother's room on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room was unbolted." "But he declared that he	that everything must be risked for the sake of that damning piece of evidence. Quickly, he forces the lock with a penknife, and turns over the papers until he finds what he is looking for." "But now a fresh dilemma arises: he dare not keep that piece of paper on him. He may be seen leaving the room he may be searched. If the paper is found on him, it is certain doom. Probably, at this minute, too, he hears the sounds below of Mr. Wells and John leaving the boudoir. He must act quickly. Where can he hide this terrible slip of paper? The contents of the waste-paper-basket are kept and in any case, are sure to be examined. There are no means of destroying it; and he dare not keep it. He looks round, and he sees what do you think, _mon ami?_" I shook my head. "In a moment, he has torn the letter into long thin strips, and rolling them up into spills he thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other spills in the vase on the mantle-piece." I uttered an exclamation. "No one would think of looking there," Poirot continued. "And he will be able, at his leisure, to come back and destroy this solitary piece of evidence against him." "Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom, under our very noses?" I cried. Poirot nodded. "Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my last link,' and I owe that very fortunate discovery to you." "To me?" "Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand shook as I was straightening the ornaments on the mantelpiece?" "Yes, but I don't see" "No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I remembered that earlier in the morning, when we had been there together, I had straightened all the objects on the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, someone else had touched them." "Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?" "Yes, and it was a race for time." "But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it." "Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that." "You?" "Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my confidence on the subject?" "Yes." "Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving it in the spill vase."<\|quote\|>"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him."</\|quote\|>"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's existence. In accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never have been able to bring him to justice." "I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss Howard?" "When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp." "Why, what was there to lie about?" "You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?" "Yes more or less." "You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I mean?" "No," I confessed, "I don't." "You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on the 7th the day after Miss Howard's departure? The 1' was written in before the 7' to turn it into the 17th'." "But why?" "That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it was	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"	Mr. Vyse	Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent	Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when	literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was	to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under	been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills. "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her	bells. The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't go"--" "Well, I don't blame them" "--Minnie says, "need she go?" "--"Tell her, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church. The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the caress. Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills. "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off. "Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers.	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 is rheumatic and has retired. There! Now for the garden." She took hold of her guest by the arm. "Suppose we don't talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting." Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain. Chapter XV: The Disaster Within The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells. The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't go"--" "Well, I don't blame them" "--Minnie says, "need she go?" "--"Tell her, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church. The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the caress. Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills. "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then they drove off. "Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil. Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different. She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden. "Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he knows me already." He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such a thing. I am very much upset about it." "I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch uneasily. "Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we should be artistic. He is disappointed." "And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. "Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name was never mentioned. "So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it does seem so unkind." "There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages. "Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?" "There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good	the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of church bells. The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't go"--" "Well, I don't blame them" "--Minnie says, "need she go?" "--"Tell her, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all events was one for church. The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the caress. Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills. "Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?" "It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading." "But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo." Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had said,<\|quote\|>"What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?"</\|quote\|>And this too had lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "Lucy--have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?" She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a Sunday fluster. "It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious, how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!" "Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch--" from the upper regions. "Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse" "--it was always the horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but blouses. Poor Charlotte--How I do detest blouses! Minnie!" Paganism is infectious--more infectious than diphtheria or piety--and the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down the stairs. "Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--" "Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely frock! You put us all to shame." "If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed herself with her back	A Room With A View
was Mr. Emerson's reply.	No speaker	rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing	gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the	"I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a	"You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--" He paused for a phrase. "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself." "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker." "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded.	said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?" The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away. "You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--" He paused for a phrase. "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself." "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker." "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded. It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding." Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her. "If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity. "Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last	Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began their career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate's upturned toes. "Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had darted forward also. "Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!" The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be superstitious. "Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?" The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away. "You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--" He paused for a phrase. "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself." "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker." "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded. It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding." Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her. "If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity. "Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience." "My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are repeating what you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure." Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before replying. "I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are." The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi	And in a moment she was away over the Piazza, her military cloak flapping in the wind; nor did she slacken speed till she caught up an old man with white whiskers, and nipped him playfully upon the arm. Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. Then she began to get tired. The beggars worried her, the dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered that a young girl ought not to loiter in public places. She descended slowly into the Piazza with the intention of rejoining Miss Lavish, who was really almost too original. But at that moment Miss Lavish and her local-colour box moved also, and disappeared down a side street, both gesticulating largely. Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes partly because Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken her Baedeker. How could she find her way home? How could she find her way about in Santa Croce? Her first morning was ruined, and she might never be in Florence again. A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits, talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading herself that she was full of originality. Now she entered the church depressed and humiliated, not even able to remember whether it was built by the Franciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a wonderful building. But how like a barn! And how very cold! Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile values she was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tell her which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin. Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of acquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out the Italian notices--the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs into the church--the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health and out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves, not to spit. She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began their career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate's upturned toes. "Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had darted forward also. "Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!" The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be superstitious. "Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?" The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away. "You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--" He paused for a phrase. "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself." "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker." "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded. It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding." Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her. "If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity. "Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience." "My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are repeating what you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure." Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before replying. "I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are." The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt like a child in school who had answered a question rightly. The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of them rose the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to worship Giotto, not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of the spirit. "Remember," he was saying, "the facts about this church of Santa Croce; how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in these frescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!" "No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church. "Remember nothing of the sort! Built by faith indeed! That simply means the workmen weren't paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I see no truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much as I do, and he is shooting into the sky like an air balloon." He was referring to the fresco of the "Ascension of St. John." Inside, the lecturer's voice faltered, as well it might. The audience shifted uneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought not to be with these men; but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious and so strange that she could not remember how to behave. "Now, did this happen, or didn't it? Yes or no?" George replied: "It happened like this, if it happened at all. I would rather go up to heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I should like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do here." "You will never go up," said his father. "You and I, dear boy, will lie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear as surely as our work survives." "Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened at all." "Pardon me," said a frigid voice. "The chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will incommode you no longer."	remember whether it was built by the Franciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a wonderful building. But how like a barn! And how very cold! Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile values she was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tell her which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was no one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the one that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin. Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of acquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out the Italian notices--the notices that forbade people to introduce dogs into the church--the notice that prayed people, in the interest of health and out of respect to the sacred edifice in which they found themselves, not to spit. She watched the tourists; their noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began their career by sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads, and then retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the prelate's upturned toes. "Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had darted forward also. "Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!" The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told him not to be superstitious. "Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a church?" The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar. Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering with agitation, he walked away. "You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe--" He paused for a phrase. "Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers. "I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy. In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms. "That woman understands everything,"<\|quote\|>was Mr. Emerson's reply.</\|quote\|>"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you through with the church?" "No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a time, I had to come in by myself." "Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson. "Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing the young lady for the first time. "But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker." "Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded. It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding." Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was not sure whither it would lead her. "If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us." Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her dignity. "Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience." "My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are repeating what you have heard older people say. You are pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure." Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as it is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get cross. Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour him. On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before replying. "I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see, if you will kindly tell me which they are." The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about him. She felt like a child in school who had answered a question rightly. The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out of them rose the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to worship Giotto, not by tactful valuations, but by the standards of the spirit. "Remember," he was saying, "the facts about this church of Santa Croce; how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, before any taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in these frescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!" "No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in	A Room With A View
Wickham only shook his head.	No speaker	to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at	even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking,	with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will	at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have	him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his	to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. "About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand." "Yes," replied Wickham;--" "his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy." Elizabeth could not but look surprised. "You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?" "As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--" "I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father." Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased	on the mantle-piece, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last however. The gentlemen did approach; and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable, gentleman-like set, and the best of them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who followed them into the room. Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most thread-bare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker. With such rivals for the notice of the fair, as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed likely to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her in return, by sitting down to whist. "I know little of the game, at present," said he, "but I shall be glad to improve myself, for in my situation of life----" Mrs. Philips was very thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason. Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. "About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand." "Yes," replied Wickham;--" "his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy." Elizabeth could not but look surprised. "You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?" "As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--" "I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father." Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry. "It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now." "Indeed!" "Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere." "Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?" "There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too freely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me." "This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced." "Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_." Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. "But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what can have induced him to behave so cruelly?" "A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of preference which was often given me." "I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked him,	first there seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there. "About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand." "Yes," replied Wickham;--" "his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy." Elizabeth could not but look surprised. "You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?" "As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--" "I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable." "I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family." "Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one." "I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen." "I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man."<\|quote\|>Wickham only shook his head.</\|quote\|>"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer." "I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood." "Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_ wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father." Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry. Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible	Pride And Prejudice
said Baby.	No speaker	you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's	of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't	revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of	"what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end	Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it."	world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below. "Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it." Presently Tony realized that it was not etiquette in Milly's world to express interest in women, other than the one you were with. They drank champagne. So also, noticed Tony with displeasure, did the two detectives. He would have something to say about that when their bill for expenses came in. It was not as though they had been accommodating in the matter of Winnie. All the time, at the back of his mind, he was worrying with the problem of what they could possibly do after dinner, but it was solved for him, just as he was lighting his cigar, by the appearance of Dan from the other side of the dining-room. "Look here," he said, "if you two aren't doing anything special, why don't you join up with us and come to the party at my friend's place. You'll like it. He always gives one the best of everything." "Oh, do let's," said Milly. Dan's evening clothes were made of blue cloth that was supposed to appear black in artificial light; for some reason, however, they remained very blue. So Milly and Tony went to Dan's friend's place and had the best of everything. There was a party	right." "I want late dinner. I want late dinner." "No, dear, not late dinner. You have an ice up here." Tony returned to the bar. "Mr James," he said. "Did I understand you to say you were fond of children." "Yes, in their right place." "You wouldn't, I suppose, consider dining to-night with the little girl who has accompanied me? I should take it as a great kindness." "Oh no, sir, hardly that." "You would not find me ungrateful." "Well, sir, I don't want to appear unobliging, but it's not part of my duties." He seemed to be wavering but Blenkinsop interposed. "Quite out of the question, sir." When Tony left them Blenkinsop spoke from the depth of his experience; it was the first job that he and James had been on together, and he felt under some obligation to put his junior wise. "Our trouble is always the same--to make the clients realize that divorce is a serious matter." Eventually extravagant promises for the morrow, two or three ices, and the slight depression induced by them persuaded Winnie to go to bed. "How are we going to sleep?" asked Milly. "Oh, just as you like." "Just as _you_ like." "Well, perhaps Winnie would be happier with you... she'll have to go into the other room to-morrow morning when they bring in breakfast, of course." So she was tucked up in a corner of the double bed and to Tony's surprise was asleep before they went down to dinner. A change of clothes brought to both Tony and Milly a change of temper. She, in her best evening frock, backless and vermilion, her face newly done and her bleached curls brushed out, her feet in high red shoes, some bracelets on her wrist, a dab of scent behind the large sham pearls in her ears, shook off the cares of domesticity and was once more in uniform, reporting for duty, a legionary ordered for active service after the enervating restraints of a winter in barracks; and Tony, filling his cigar case before the mirror, and slipping it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, reminded himself that phantasmagoric, and even gruesome as the situation might seem to him, he was nevertheless a host, so that he knocked at the communicating door and passed with a calm manner into his guest's room; for a month now he had lived in a world suddenly bereft of order; it was as though the whole reasonable and decent constitution of things, the sum of all he had experienced or learned to expect, were an inconspicuous, inconsiderable object mislaid somewhere on the dressing table; no outrageous circumstance in which he found himself, no new, mad thing brought to his notice, could add a jot to the all-encompassing chaos that shrieked about his ears. He smiled at Milly from the doorway. "Charming," he said, "perfectly charming. Shall we go down to dinner?" Their rooms were on the first floor. Step by step, with her hand on his arm, they descended the staircase into the bright hall below. "Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it." Presently Tony realized that it was not etiquette in Milly's world to express interest in women, other than the one you were with. They drank champagne. So also, noticed Tony with displeasure, did the two detectives. He would have something to say about that when their bill for expenses came in. It was not as though they had been accommodating in the matter of Winnie. All the time, at the back of his mind, he was worrying with the problem of what they could possibly do after dinner, but it was solved for him, just as he was lighting his cigar, by the appearance of Dan from the other side of the dining-room. "Look here," he said, "if you two aren't doing anything special, why don't you join up with us and come to the party at my friend's place. You'll like it. He always gives one the best of everything." "Oh, do let's," said Milly. Dan's evening clothes were made of blue cloth that was supposed to appear black in artificial light; for some reason, however, they remained very blue. So Milly and Tony went to Dan's friend's place and had the best of everything. There was a party of twenty or thirty people, all more or less like Dan. Dan's friend was most hospitable. When he was not fiddling with the wireless, which gave trouble off and on throughout the evening, he was sauntering among his guests refilling their glasses. "This stuff's all right," he said, showing the label, "it won't hurt you. It's the right stuff." They had a lot of the right stuff. Quite often Dan's friend noticed that Tony seemed to be out of the party. Then he would come across and put his hand on Tony's shoulder. "I'm so glad Dan brought you," he would say. "Hope you're getting all you want. Delighted to see you. Come again when there isn't a crowd and see over the place. Interested in roses?" "Yes, I like them very much." "Come when the roses are out. You'd like that if you're interested in roses. Damn that radio, it's going wonky again." Tony wondered whether he was as amiable when people he did not know were brought over unexpectedly to Hetton. At one stage in the evening he found himself sitting on a sofa with Dan, who said, "Nice kid, Milly." "Yes." "I'll tell you a thing I've noticed about her. She attracts quite a different type from the other girls. People like you and me." "Yes." "You wouldn't think she had a daughter of eight, would you?" "No, it's very surprising." "I didn't know for ages. Then I was taking her to Dieppe for the week-end and she wanted to bring the child along too. Of course that put the kybosh on it, but I've always liked Milly just the same. You can trust her to behave anywhere." He said this with a sour glance towards Baby, who was full of the right stuff and showing it. It was after three before the party broke up. Dan's friend renewed his invitation to come again when the roses were out. "I doubt if you'll find a better show of roses anywhere in the south of England," he said. Dan drove them back to the hotel. Baby sat beside him in front, disposed to be quarrelsome. "Where were you?" she kept asking. "Never saw you all the evening. Where did you get to? Where were you hiding? I call it a lousy way to take a girl out." Tony and Milly sat at the back. From habit and exhaustion	"Cheer up," said Milly. "You have a tongue sandwich. That'll make you talk." "Sorry, am I being a bore?" "I was only joking. You are a serious boy, aren't you?" In spite of the savage weather the hotel seemed full of week-end visitors. More were arriving through the swing doors, their eyes moist and their cheeks rigid from the icy cold outside. "Yids," explained Milly superfluously. "Still, it's nice to get a change from the club once in a while." One of the new arrivals was a friend of Milly's. He was supervising the collection of his luggage. Anywhere else he would have been a noticeable figure, for he wore a large fur coat and a beret; under the coat appeared tartan stockings and black and white shoes. "Take "em up and get "em unpacked and quick about it," he said. He was a stout little young man. His companion, also in furs, was staring resentfully at one of the showcases that embellished the hall. "Oh, for Christ's sake," she said. Milly and the young man greeted each other. "This is Dan," she said. "Well, well, well," said Dan, "what next?" "Do I get a drink?" said Dan's girl. "Baby, you do, if I have to get it myself. Won't you two join us, or are we _de trop_?" They went together into the glittering lounge. "I'm cold like hell," said Baby. Dan had taken off his greatcoat and revealed a suit of smooth, purplish plus-fours and a silk shirt of a pattern Tony might have chosen for pyjamas. "We'll soon warm you up," he said. "This place stinks of Yids," said Baby. "I always think that's the sign of a good hotel, don't you?" said Tony. "Like hell,"<\|quote\|>said Baby.</\|quote\|>"You mustn't mind Baby, she's cold," Dan explained. "Who wouldn't be, in your lousy car?" They had some cocktails. Then Dan and Baby went to their room; they must doll up, they explained, as they were going to a party given by a friend of Dan's, at a place of his near there. Tony and Milly went in to dinner. "He's a very nice boy," she said, "and comes to the club a lot. We get all sorts there, but Dan's one of the decent ones. I was going to have gone abroad with him once but in the end he couldn't get away." "His girl didn't seem to like us much." "Oh, she was cold." Tony did not find conversation easy at dinner. At first he commented on their neighbours as he would have done if he had been dining with Brenda at Espinosa's. "That's a pretty girl in the corner." "I wonder you don't go and join her, dear," said Milly testily. "Look at that woman's diamonds. Do you think they can be real?" "Why don't you ask her, if you're so interested?" "That's an interesting type--the dark woman dancing." "I'm sure she'd be delighted to hear it." Presently Tony realized that it was not etiquette in Milly's world to express interest in women, other than the one you were with. They drank champagne. So also, noticed Tony with displeasure, did the two detectives. He would have something to say about that when their bill for expenses came in. It was not as though they had been accommodating in the matter of Winnie. All the time, at the back of his mind, he was worrying with the problem of what they could possibly do after dinner, but it was solved for him, just as he was lighting his cigar, by the appearance of Dan from the other side of the dining-room. "Look here," he said, "if you two aren't doing anything special, why don't you join up with us and come to the party at my friend's place. You'll like it. He always gives one the best of everything." "Oh, do let's," said Milly. Dan's evening clothes were made of blue cloth that was supposed to appear black in artificial light; for some reason, however, they remained very blue. So Milly and Tony went to Dan's friend's place and had the best of everything. There was a party of twenty or thirty people, all more or less like Dan. Dan's friend was most hospitable. When he was not fiddling with the wireless, which gave trouble off and on throughout the evening, he was sauntering among his guests refilling their glasses. "This stuff's all right," he said, showing the label, "it won't hurt you. It's the right stuff." They had a lot of the right stuff. Quite often Dan's friend noticed that Tony seemed to be out of the party. Then he would come across and put his hand on Tony's shoulder. "I'm so glad Dan brought you," he would say. "Hope you're getting all you want. Delighted to see you. Come again when there isn't a crowd and see over the place. Interested in roses?" "Yes, I like them very much." "Come when the roses are out. You'd like that if you're interested in roses. Damn that radio, it's going wonky again." Tony wondered whether he was as amiable when people he did not know were brought over unexpectedly	A Handful Of Dust
"Are you working?"	Katharine Hilbery	been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young	with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as	immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party."	there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for	speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up	off I go. The illusion fades. But I accept my fate. I make hay while the sun shines." Cassandra looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Here s Katharine talking about rats, and hay, and all sorts of odd things," she said, as William returned to them. He had been quick. "Can you make her out?" Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation that he did not find that particular problem to his taste at present. She stood upright at once and said in a different tone: "I really am off, though. I wish you d explain if they say anything, William. I shan t be late, but I ve got to see some one." "At this time of night?" Cassandra exclaimed. "Whom have you got to see?" William demanded. "A friend," she remarked, half turning her head towards him. She knew that he wished her to stay, not, indeed, with them, but in their neighborhood, in case of need. "Katharine has a great many friends," said William rather lamely, sitting down once more, as Katharine left the room. She was soon driving quickly, as she had wished to drive, through the lamp-lit streets. She liked both light and speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up a scheme for the education of labor, for the amalgamation of the middle class and the working class, and for a joint assault of the two bodies, combined in the Society for the Education of Democracy, upon Capital. The scheme had already reached the stage in which it was permissible to hire an office and engage a secretary, and he had been deputed to expound the scheme to Mary, and make her an offer of the Secretaryship, to which, as a matter of principle, a small salary was attached. Since seven o clock that evening he had been reading out loud the document in which the faith of the new reformers was expounded, but the reading was so frequently interrupted by discussion, and it was so often necessary to inform Mary "in strictest confidence" of the private characters and evil designs of certain individuals and societies that they were still only half-way through the manuscript. Neither of them realized that the talk had already lasted three hours. In their absorption they had forgotten even to feed the fire, and yet both Mr. Basnett in his exposition, and Mary in her interrogation, carefully preserved a kind of formality calculated to check	love, to struggle. And yet her melancholy brought her no serenity. She still heard the voices within the room. She was still tormented by desires. She wished to be beyond their range. She wished inconsistently enough that she could find herself driving rapidly through the streets; she was even anxious to be with some one who, after a moment s groping, took a definite shape and solidified into the person of Mary Datchet. She drew the curtains so that the draperies met in deep folds in the middle of the window. "Ah, there she is," said Mr. Hilbery, who was standing swaying affably from side to side, with his back to the fire. "Come here, Katharine. I couldn t see where you d got to our children," he observed parenthetically, "have their uses I want you to go to my study, Katharine; go to the third shelf on the right-hand side of the door; take down Trelawny s Recollections of Shelley ; bring it to me. Then, Peyton, you will have to admit to the assembled company that you have been mistaken." "Trelawny s Recollections of Shelley. The third shelf on the right of the door," Katharine repeated. After all, one does not check children in their play, or rouse sleepers from their dreams. She passed William and Cassandra on her way to the door. "Stop, Katharine," said William, speaking almost as if he were conscious of her against his will. "Let me go." He rose, after a second s hesitation, and she understood that it cost him an effort. She knelt one knee upon the sofa where Cassandra sat, looking down at her cousin s face, which still moved with the speed of what she had been saying. "Are you happy?" she asked. "Oh, my dear!" Cassandra exclaimed, as if no further words were needed. "Of course, we disagree about every subject under the sun," she exclaimed, "but I think he s the cleverest man I ve ever met and you re the most beautiful woman," she added, looking at Katharine, and as she looked her face lost its animation and became almost melancholy in sympathy with Katharine s melancholy, which seemed to Cassandra the last refinement of her distinction. "Ah, but it s only ten o clock," said Katharine darkly. "As late as that! Well ?" She did not understand. "At twelve my horses turn into rats and off I go. The illusion fades. But I accept my fate. I make hay while the sun shines." Cassandra looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Here s Katharine talking about rats, and hay, and all sorts of odd things," she said, as William returned to them. He had been quick. "Can you make her out?" Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation that he did not find that particular problem to his taste at present. She stood upright at once and said in a different tone: "I really am off, though. I wish you d explain if they say anything, William. I shan t be late, but I ve got to see some one." "At this time of night?" Cassandra exclaimed. "Whom have you got to see?" William demanded. "A friend," she remarked, half turning her head towards him. She knew that he wished her to stay, not, indeed, with them, but in their neighborhood, in case of need. "Katharine has a great many friends," said William rather lamely, sitting down once more, as Katharine left the room. She was soon driving quickly, as she had wished to drive, through the lamp-lit streets. She liked both light and speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up a scheme for the education of labor, for the amalgamation of the middle class and the working class, and for a joint assault of the two bodies, combined in the Society for the Education of Democracy, upon Capital. The scheme had already reached the stage in which it was permissible to hire an office and engage a secretary, and he had been deputed to expound the scheme to Mary, and make her an offer of the Secretaryship, to which, as a matter of principle, a small salary was attached. Since seven o clock that evening he had been reading out loud the document in which the faith of the new reformers was expounded, but the reading was so frequently interrupted by discussion, and it was so often necessary to inform Mary "in strictest confidence" of the private characters and evil designs of certain individuals and societies that they were still only half-way through the manuscript. Neither of them realized that the talk had already lasted three hours. In their absorption they had forgotten even to feed the fire, and yet both Mr. Basnett in his exposition, and Mary in her interrogation, carefully preserved a kind of formality calculated to check the desire of the human mind for irrelevant discussion. Her questions frequently began, "Am I to understand " and his replies invariably represented the views of some one called "we." By this time Mary was almost persuaded that she, too, was included in the "we," and agreed with Mr. Basnett in believing that "our" views, "our" society, "our" policy, stood for something quite definitely segregated from the main body of society in a circle of superior illumination. The appearance of Katharine in this atmosphere was extremely incongruous, and had the effect of making Mary remember all sorts of things that she had been glad to forget. "You ve been dining out?" she asked again, looking, with a little smile, at the blue silk and the pearl-sewn shoes. "No, at home. Are you starting something new?" Katharine hazarded, rather hesitatingly, looking at the papers. "We are," Mr. Basnett replied. He said no more. "I m thinking of leaving our friends in Russell Square," Mary explained. "I see. And then you will do something else." "Well, I m afraid I like working," said Mary. "Afraid," said Mr. Basnett, conveying the impression that, in his opinion, no sensible person could be afraid of liking to work. "Yes," said Katharine, as if he had stated this opinion aloud. "I should like to start something something off one s own bat that s what I should like." "Yes, that s the fun," said Mr. Basnett, looking at her for the first time rather keenly, and refilling his pipe. "But you can t limit work that s what I mean," said Mary. "I mean there are other sorts of work. No one works harder than a woman with little children." "Quite so," said Mr. Basnett. "It s precisely the women with babies we want to get hold of." He glanced at his document, rolled it into a cylinder between his fingers, and gazed into the fire. Katharine felt that in this company anything that one said would be judged upon its merits; one had only to say what one thought, rather barely and tersely, with a curious assumption that the number of things that could properly be thought about was strictly limited. And Mr. Basnett was only stiff upon the surface; there was an intelligence in his face which attracted her intelligence. "When will the public know?" she asked. "What d you mean about us?" Mr.	her way to the door. "Stop, Katharine," said William, speaking almost as if he were conscious of her against his will. "Let me go." He rose, after a second s hesitation, and she understood that it cost him an effort. She knelt one knee upon the sofa where Cassandra sat, looking down at her cousin s face, which still moved with the speed of what she had been saying. "Are you happy?" she asked. "Oh, my dear!" Cassandra exclaimed, as if no further words were needed. "Of course, we disagree about every subject under the sun," she exclaimed, "but I think he s the cleverest man I ve ever met and you re the most beautiful woman," she added, looking at Katharine, and as she looked her face lost its animation and became almost melancholy in sympathy with Katharine s melancholy, which seemed to Cassandra the last refinement of her distinction. "Ah, but it s only ten o clock," said Katharine darkly. "As late as that! Well ?" She did not understand. "At twelve my horses turn into rats and off I go. The illusion fades. But I accept my fate. I make hay while the sun shines." Cassandra looked at her with a puzzled expression. "Here s Katharine talking about rats, and hay, and all sorts of odd things," she said, as William returned to them. He had been quick. "Can you make her out?" Katharine perceived from his little frown and hesitation that he did not find that particular problem to his taste at present. She stood upright at once and said in a different tone: "I really am off, though. I wish you d explain if they say anything, William. I shan t be late, but I ve got to see some one." "At this time of night?" Cassandra exclaimed. "Whom have you got to see?" William demanded. "A friend," she remarked, half turning her head towards him. She knew that he wished her to stay, not, indeed, with them, but in their neighborhood, in case of need. "Katharine has a great many friends," said William rather lamely, sitting down once more, as Katharine left the room. She was soon driving quickly, as she had wished to drive, through the lamp-lit streets. She liked both light and speed, and the sense of being out of doors alone, and the knowledge that she would reach Mary in her high, lonely room at the end of the drive. She climbed the stone steps quickly, remarking the queer look of her blue silk skirt and blue shoes upon the stone, dusty with the boots of the day, under the light of an occasional jet of flickering gas. The door was opened in a second by Mary herself, whose face showed not only surprise at the sight of her visitor, but some degree of embarrassment. She greeted her cordially, and, as there was no time for explanations, Katharine walked straight into the sitting-room, and found herself in the presence of a young man who was lying back in a chair and holding a sheet of paper in his hand, at which he was looking as if he expected to go on immediately with what he was in the middle of saying to Mary Datchet. The apparition of an unknown lady in full evening dress seemed to disturb him. He took his pipe from his mouth, rose stiffly, and sat down again with a jerk. "Have you been dining out?" Mary asked.<\|quote\|>"Are you working?"</\|quote\|>Katharine inquired simultaneously. The young man shook his head, as if he disowned his share in the question with some irritation. "Well, not exactly," Mary replied. "Mr. Basnett had brought some papers to show me. We were going through them, but we d almost done.... Tell us about your party." Mary had a ruffled appearance, as if she had been running her fingers through her hair in the course of her conversation; she was dressed more or less like a Russian peasant girl. She sat down again in a chair which looked as if it had been her seat for some hours; the saucer which stood upon the arm contained the ashes of many cigarettes. Mr. Basnett, a very young man with a fresh complexion and a high forehead from which the hair was combed straight back, was one of that group of "very able young men" suspected by Mr. Clacton, justly as it turned out, of an influence upon Mary Datchet. He had come down from one of the Universities not long ago, and was now charged with the reformation of society. In connection with the rest of the group of very able young men he had drawn up a scheme for the education of labor, for the amalgamation of the middle class and the working class, and for a joint assault of the two bodies, combined in the Society for the Education of Democracy, upon Capital. The scheme had already reached the stage in which it was permissible to hire an office and engage a secretary, and he had been deputed to expound the scheme to Mary, and make her an offer of the Secretaryship, to which, as a matter of principle, a small salary was attached. Since seven o clock that evening he had been reading out loud the document in which the faith of the new reformers was expounded, but the reading was so frequently interrupted by discussion, and it was so often necessary to inform Mary "in strictest confidence" of the private characters and evil designs of certain individuals and societies that they were still only half-way through the manuscript. Neither of them realized that the talk had already lasted three hours. In their absorption they had forgotten even to feed the fire, and yet both Mr. Basnett in his exposition, and Mary in her interrogation, carefully preserved a kind of formality calculated to check the desire of the human mind for irrelevant discussion. Her questions frequently began, "Am I to understand " and his replies invariably represented the views of some one called "we." By this time Mary was almost persuaded that she, too, was included in the "we," and agreed with Mr. Basnett in believing that "our" views, "our" society, "our" policy, stood for something quite	Night And Day
“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”	Jelinek	He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather.	asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden,	our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I	father has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.” Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.”	and spontaneous. He said he would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me he had a nice “lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school. At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to strangers. “Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?” he asked. Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.” Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.” We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, manly faith. “I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these things,” said grandfather, “and I would never be the one to say you were not in God’s care when you were among the soldiers.” After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to	in town, but he was afraid the gray gelding had strained himself. Indeed, he was never the same horse afterward. That long trip through the deep snow had taken all the endurance out of him. Fuchs brought home with him a stranger, a young Bohemian who had taken a homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on his only horse to help his fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That was the first time I ever saw Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young fellow in the early twenties then, handsome, warm-hearted, and full of life, and he came to us like a miracle in the midst of that grim business. I remember exactly how he strode into our kitchen in his felt boots and long wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks bright with the cold. At sight of grandmother, he snatched off his fur cap, greeting her in a deep, rolling voice which seemed older than he. “I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Burden, for that you are so kind to poor strangers from my kawn-tree.” He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one eagerly in the eye when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and spontaneous. He said he would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me he had a nice “lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school. At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to strangers. “Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?” he asked. Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.” Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.” We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, manly faith. “I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these things,” said grandfather, “and I would never be the one to say you were not in God’s care when you were among the soldiers.” After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to work on a coffin. Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we admired it, he told us that he had shot and skinned the coyotes, and the young man who “batched” with him, Jan Bouska, who had been a fur-worker in Vienna, made the coat. From the windmill I watched Jelinek come out of the barn with the blacks, and work his way up the hillside toward the cornfield. Sometimes he was completely hidden by the clouds of snow that rose about him; then he and the horses would emerge black and shining. Our heavy carpenter’s bench had to be brought from the barn and carried down into the kitchen. Fuchs selected boards from a pile of planks grandfather had hauled out from town in the fall to make a new floor for the oats bin. When at last the lumber and tools were assembled, and the doors were closed again and the cold drafts shut out, grandfather rode away to meet the coroner at the Shimerdas’, and Fuchs took off his coat and settled down to work. I sat on his work-table and watched him. He did not touch his tools at first, but figured for a	Jake and I got supper, and while we were washing the dishes he told me in loud whispers about the state of things over at the Shimerdas’. Nobody could touch the body until the coroner came. If any one did, something terrible would happen, apparently. The dead man was frozen through, “just as stiff as a dressed turkey you hang out to freeze,” Jake said. The horses and oxen would not go into the barn until he was frozen so hard that there was no longer any smell of blood. They were stabled there now, with the dead man, because there was no other place to keep them. A lighted lantern was kept hanging over Mr. Shimerda’s head. Ántonia and Ambrosch and the mother took turns going down to pray beside him. The crazy boy went with them, because he did not feel the cold. I believed he felt cold as much as any one else, but he liked to be thought insensible to it. He was always coveting distinction, poor Marek! Ambrosch, Jake said, showed more human feeling than he would have supposed him capable of; but he was chiefly concerned about getting a priest, and about his father’s soul, which he believed was in a place of torment and would remain there until his family and the priest had prayed a great deal for him. “As I understand it,” Jake concluded, “it will be a matter of years to pray his soul out of Purgatory, and right now he’s in torment.” “I don’t believe it,” I said stoutly. “I almost know it is n’t true.” I did not, of course, say that I believed he had been in that very kitchen all afternoon, on his way back to his own country. Nevertheless, after I went to bed, this idea of punishment and Purgatory came back on me crushingly. I remembered the account of Dives in torment, and shuddered. But Mr. Shimerda had not been rich and selfish; he had only been so unhappy that he could not live any longer. XV OTTO FUCHS got back from Black Hawk at noon the next day. He reported that the coroner would reach the Shimerdas’ sometime that afternoon, but the missionary priest was at the other end of his parish, a hundred miles away, and the trains were not running. Fuchs had got a few hours’ sleep at the livery barn in town, but he was afraid the gray gelding had strained himself. Indeed, he was never the same horse afterward. That long trip through the deep snow had taken all the endurance out of him. Fuchs brought home with him a stranger, a young Bohemian who had taken a homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on his only horse to help his fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That was the first time I ever saw Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young fellow in the early twenties then, handsome, warm-hearted, and full of life, and he came to us like a miracle in the midst of that grim business. I remember exactly how he strode into our kitchen in his felt boots and long wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks bright with the cold. At sight of grandmother, he snatched off his fur cap, greeting her in a deep, rolling voice which seemed older than he. “I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Burden, for that you are so kind to poor strangers from my kawn-tree.” He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one eagerly in the eye when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and spontaneous. He said he would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me he had a nice “lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school. At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to strangers. “Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?” he asked. Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.” Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.” We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, manly faith. “I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these things,” said grandfather, “and I would never be the one to say you were not in God’s care when you were among the soldiers.” After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to work on a coffin. Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we admired it, he told us that he had shot and skinned the coyotes, and the young man who “batched” with him, Jan Bouska, who had been a fur-worker in Vienna, made the coat. From the windmill I watched Jelinek come out of the barn with the blacks, and work his way up the hillside toward the cornfield. Sometimes he was completely hidden by the clouds of snow that rose about him; then he and the horses would emerge black and shining. Our heavy carpenter’s bench had to be brought from the barn and carried down into the kitchen. Fuchs selected boards from a pile of planks grandfather had hauled out from town in the fall to make a new floor for the oats bin. When at last the lumber and tools were assembled, and the doors were closed again and the cold drafts shut out, grandfather rode away to meet the coroner at the Shimerdas’, and Fuchs took off his coat and settled down to work. I sat on his work-table and watched him. He did not touch his tools at first, but figured for a long while on a piece of paper, and measured the planks and made marks on them. While he was thus engaged, he whistled softly to himself, or teasingly pulled at his half-ear. Grandmother moved about quietly, so as not to disturb him. At last he folded his ruler and turned a cheerful face to us. “The hardest part of my job’s done,” he announced. “It’s the head end of it that comes hard with me, especially when I’m out of practice. The last time I made one of these, Mrs. Burden,” he continued, as he sorted and tried his chisels, “was for a fellow in the Black Tiger mine, up above Silverton, Colorado. The mouth of that mine goes right into the face of the cliff, and they used to put us in a bucket and run us over on a trolley and shoot us into the shaft. The bucket traveled across a box cañon three hundred feet deep, and about a third full of water. Two Swedes had fell out of that bucket once, and hit the water, feet down. If you’ll believe it, they went to work the next day. You can’t kill a Swede. But in my time a little Eyetalian tried the high dive, and it turned out different with him. We was snowed in then, like we are now, and I happened to be the only man in camp that could make a coffin for him. It’s a handy thing to know, when you knock about like I’ve done.” “We’d be hard put to it now, if you did n’t know, Otto,” grandmother said. “Yes, ’m,” Fuchs admitted with modest pride. “So few folks does know how to make a good tight box that’ll turn water. I sometimes wonder if there’ll be anybody about to do it for me. However, I’m not at all particular that way.” All afternoon, wherever one went in the house, one could hear the panting wheeze of the saw or the pleasant purring of the plane. They were such cheerful noises, seeming to promise new things for living people: it was a pity that those freshly planed pine boards were to be put underground so soon. The lumber was hard to work because it was full of frost, and the boards gave off a sweet smell of pine woods, as the heap of yellow shavings grew higher and higher. I	a stranger, a young Bohemian who had taken a homestead near Black Hawk, and who came on his only horse to help his fellow-countrymen in their trouble. That was the first time I ever saw Anton Jelinek. He was a strapping young fellow in the early twenties then, handsome, warm-hearted, and full of life, and he came to us like a miracle in the midst of that grim business. I remember exactly how he strode into our kitchen in his felt boots and long wolfskin coat, his eyes and cheeks bright with the cold. At sight of grandmother, he snatched off his fur cap, greeting her in a deep, rolling voice which seemed older than he. “I want to thank you very much, Mrs. Burden, for that you are so kind to poor strangers from my kawn-tree.” He did not hesitate like a farmer boy, but looked one eagerly in the eye when he spoke. Everything about him was warm and spontaneous. He said he would have come to see the Shimerdas before, but he had hired out to husk corn all the fall, and since winter began he had been going to the school by the mill, to learn English, along with the little children. He told me he had a nice “lady-teacher” and that he liked to go to school. At dinner grandfather talked to Jelinek more than he usually did to strangers. “Will they be much disappointed because we cannot get a priest?” he asked. Jelinek looked serious. “Yes, sir, that is very bad for them. Their father has done a great sin,” he looked straight at grandfather. “Our Lord has said that.” Grandfather seemed to like his frankness. “We believe that, too, Jelinek. But we believe that Mr. Shimerda’s soul will come to its Creator as well off without a priest. We believe that Christ is our only intercessor.” The young man shook his head. “I know how you think. My teacher at the school has explain. But I have seen too much. I believe in prayer for the dead. I have seen too much.” We asked him what he meant. He glanced around the table.<\|quote\|>“You want I shall tell you? When I was a little boy like this one, I begin to help the priest at the altar. I make my first communion very young; what the Church teach seem plain to me. By ’n’ by war-times come, when the Austrians fight us. We have very many soldiers in camp near my village, and the cholera break out in that camp, and the men die like flies. All day long our priest go about there to give the Sacrament to dying men, and I go with him to carry the vessels with the Holy Sacrament. Everybody that go near that camp catch the sickness but me and the priest. But we have no sickness, we have no fear, because we carry that blood and that body of Christ, and it preserve us.”</\|quote\|>He paused, looking at grandfather. “That I know, Mr. Burden, for it happened to myself. All the soldiers know, too. When we walk along the road, the old priest and me, we meet all the time soldiers marching and officers on horse. All those officers, when they see what I carry under the cloth, pull up their horses and kneel down on the ground in the road until we pass. So I feel very bad for my kawntree-man to die without the Sacrament, and to die in a bad way for his soul, and I feel sad for his family.” We had listened attentively. It was impossible not to admire his frank, manly faith. “I am always glad to meet a young man who thinks seriously about these things,” said grandfather, “and I would never be the one to say you were not in God’s care when you were among the soldiers.” After dinner it was decided that young Jelinek should hook our two strong black farmhorses to the scraper and break a road through to the Shimerdas’, so that a wagon could go when it was necessary. Fuchs, who was the only cabinet-maker in the neighborhood, was set to work on a coffin. Jelinek put on his long wolfskin coat, and when we admired it, he told us that he had shot and	My Antonia
"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"	Mr. Frank Churchill	and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess	with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I	was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for	and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know	admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it," (with a gallant bow,) "that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms." Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable. She had no doubt of	most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment. Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was it a musical society?" But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it," (with a gallant bow,) "that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms." Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable. She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening. Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which, however, he	shall not forget to think of you four hours hence; and by this time to-morrow, perhaps, or a little later, I may be thinking of the possibility of their all calling here. I am sure they will bring him soon." She opened the parlour door, and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father--Mr. Weston and his son. They had been arrived only a few minutes, and Mr. Weston had scarcely finished his explanation of Frank's being a day before his time, and her father was yet in the midst of his very civil welcome and congratulations, when she appeared, to have her share of surprize, introduction, and pleasure. The Frank Churchill so long talked of, so high in interest, was actually before her--he was presented to her, and she did not think too much had been said in his praise; he was a _very_ good looking young man; height, air, address, all were unexceptionable, and his countenance had a great deal of the spirit and liveliness of his father's; he looked quick and sensible. She felt immediately that she should like him; and there was a well-bred ease of manner, and a readiness to talk, which convinced her that he came intending to be acquainted with her, and that acquainted they soon must be. He had reached Randalls the evening before. She was pleased with the eagerness to arrive which had made him alter his plan, and travel earlier, later, and quicker, that he might gain half a day. "I told you yesterday," cried Mr. Weston with exultation, "I told you all that he would be here before the time named. I remembered what I used to do myself. One cannot creep upon a journey; one cannot help getting on faster than one has planned; and the pleasure of coming in upon one's friends before the look-out begins, is worth a great deal more than any little exertion it needs." "It is a great pleasure where one can indulge in it," said the young man, "though there are not many houses that I should presume on so far; but in coming _home_ I felt I might do any thing." The word _home_ made his father look on him with fresh complacency. Emma was directly sure that he knew how to make himself agreeable; the conviction was strengthened by what followed. He was very much pleased with Randalls, thought it a most admirably arranged house, would hardly allow it even to be very small, admired the situation, the walk to Highbury, Highbury itself, Hartfield still more, and professed himself to have always felt the sort of interest in the country which none but one's _own_ country gives, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he should never have been able to indulge so amiable a feeling before, passed suspiciously through Emma's brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment. Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was it a musical society?" But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it," (with a gallant bow,) "that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms." Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable. She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening. Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after Mr. Frank Churchill's accommodation on his journey, through the sad evils of sleeping two nights on the road, and express very genuine unmixed anxiety to know that he had certainly escaped catching cold--which, however, he could not allow him to feel quite assured of himself till after another night. A reasonable visit paid, Mr. Weston began to move.--"He must be going. He had business at the Crown about his hay, and a great many errands for Mrs. Weston at Ford's, but he need not hurry any body else." His son, too well bred to hear the hint, rose immediately also, saying, "As you are going farther on business, sir, I will take the opportunity of paying a visit, which must be paid some day or other, and therefore may as well be paid now. I have the honour of being acquainted with a neighbour of yours," (turning to Emma,) "a lady residing in or near Highbury; a family of the name of Fairfax. I shall have no difficulty, I suppose, in finding the house; though Fairfax, I believe, is not the proper name--I should rather say Barnes, or Bates. Do you know any family of that name?" "To be sure we do," cried his father; "Mrs. Bates--we passed her house--I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you are acquainted with Miss Fairfax; I remember you knew her at Weymouth, and a fine girl she is. Call upon her, by all means." "There is no necessity for my calling this morning," said the young man; "another day would do as well; but there was that degree of acquaintance at Weymouth which--" "Oh! go to-day, go to-day. Do not defer it. What is right to be done cannot be done too soon. And, besides, I must give you a hint, Frank; any want of attention to her _here_ should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the Campbells, when she was the equal of every body she mixed with, but here she is with a poor old grandmother, who has barely enough to live on. If you do not call early it will be a slight." The son looked convinced. "I have heard her speak of the acquaintance," said Emma; "she is a very elegant young woman." He agreed to it, but with so quiet a "Yes," as inclined her almost to doubt his real concurrence; and yet there must be a very distinct sort of elegance for the fashionable world, if Jane Fairfax could be thought only ordinarily gifted with it. "If you were never particularly struck by her manners before," said she, "I	brain; but still, if it were a falsehood, it was a pleasant one, and pleasantly handled. His manner had no air of study or exaggeration. He did really look and speak as if in a state of no common enjoyment. Their subjects in general were such as belong to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the inquiries,--"Was she a horsewoman?--Pleasant rides?--Pleasant walks?--Had they a large neighbourhood?--Highbury, perhaps, afforded society enough?--There were several very pretty houses in and about it.--Balls--had they balls?--Was it a musical society?" But when satisfied on all these points, and their acquaintance proportionably advanced, he contrived to find an opportunity, while their two fathers were engaged with each other, of introducing his mother-in-law, and speaking of her with so much handsome praise, so much warm admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she secured to his father, and her very kind reception of himself, as was an additional proof of his knowing how to please--and of his certainly thinking it worth while to try to please her. He did not advance a word of praise beyond what she knew to be thoroughly deserved by Mrs. Weston; but, undoubtedly he could know very little of the matter. He understood what would be welcome; he could be sure of little else. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the wisest measure, every friend must rejoice in it; and the family from whom he had received such a blessing must be ever considered as having conferred the highest obligation on him." He got as near as he could to thanking her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming quite to forget that in the common course of things it was to be rather supposed that Miss Taylor had formed Miss Woodhouse's character, than Miss Woodhouse Miss Taylor's. And at last, as if resolved to qualify his opinion completely for travelling round to its object, he wound it all up with astonishment at the youth and beauty of her person.<\|quote\|>"Elegant, agreeable manners, I was prepared for,"</\|quote\|>said he; "but I confess that, considering every thing, I had not expected more than a very tolerably well-looking woman of a certain age; I did not know that I was to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Weston." "You cannot see too much perfection in Mrs. Weston for my feelings," said Emma; "were you to guess her to be _eighteen_, I should listen with pleasure; but _she_ would be ready to quarrel with you for using such words. Don't let her imagine that you have spoken of her as a pretty young woman." "I hope I should know better," he replied; "no, depend upon it," (with a gallant bow,) "that in addressing Mrs. Weston I should understand whom I might praise without any danger of being thought extravagant in my terms." Emma wondered whether the same suspicion of what might be expected from their knowing each other, which had taken strong possession of her mind, had ever crossed his; and whether his compliments were to be considered as marks of acquiescence, or proofs of defiance. She must see more of him to understand his ways; at present she only felt they were agreeable. She had no doubt of what Mr. Weston was often thinking about. His quick eye she detected again and again glancing towards them with a happy expression; and even, when he might have determined not to look, she was confident that he was often listening. Her own father's perfect exemption from any thought of the kind, the entire deficiency in him of all such sort of penetration or suspicion, was a most comfortable circumstance. Happily he was not farther from approving matrimony than from foreseeing it.--Though always objecting to every marriage that was arranged, he never suffered beforehand from the apprehension of any; it seemed as if he could not think so ill of any two persons' understanding as to suppose they meant to marry till it were proved against them. She blessed the favouring blindness. He could now, without the drawback of a single unpleasant surmise, without a glance forward at any possible treachery in his guest, give way to all his natural kind-hearted civility in solicitous inquiries after	Emma
“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”	Grace	the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered	the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance	please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear,	I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.” Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. “Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh	business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.” Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. “Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder	a searching look with Lady Grace, who, showing in her face all the pain of the business, stood off at the distance to which a woman instinctively retreats when a scene turns to violence as precipitately as this one appeared to strike her as having turned: “I ask you that not less than I should like to know whom you speak of as ‘deprived’ of property that happens--for reasons that I don’t suppose you also quarrel with!--to be mine.” “Well, I know nothing about threats, Lord Theign,” Hugh said, “but I speak of _all_ of us--of all the people of England; who would deeply deplore such an act of alienation, and whom, for the interest they bear you, I beseech you mercifully to consider.” “The interest they bear me?” --the master of Dedborough fairly bristled with wonder. “Pray how the devil do they show it?” “I think they show it in all sorts of ways” --and Hugh’s critical smile, at almost any moment hovering, played over the question in a manner seeming to convey that he meant many things. “Understand then, please,” said Lord Theign with every inch of his authority, “that they’ll show it best by minding their own business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.” Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. “Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder was to address herself directly to Hugh, across their companion. “Will you make your inquiry for _me_ then?” The light again kindled in him. “With all the pleasure in life!” He had found his cap and, taking them together, bowed to the two, for departure, with high emphasis of form. Then he marched off in the direction from which he had entered. Lord Theign scarce waited for his disappearance to turn in wrath to Lady Grace. “I denounce the indecency, wretched child, of your public defiance of me!” They were separated by a wide interval now, and though at her distance she met his reproof so unshrinkingly as perhaps to justify the terms into which it had broken, she became aware of a reason for his not following it up. She pronounced in quick warning “Lord John!” --for their friend, released from among the pictures, was rejoining them, was already there. He spoke straight to his host on coming into sight. “Bender’s at last off, but” --he indicated the direction of the garden front-- “you may still find him, out yonder, prolonging the agony with Lady Sand-gate.” Lord Theign remained a moment, and the heat of his resentment remained. He	doubtless, and of a sudden, a little portentous--as was in fact testified to by his lordship’s quick stiff stare, full of wonder at so free a note. But Hugh had the courage of his undertaking. “If I contribute in ny modest degree to establishing the true authorship of the work you speak of, may I have from you an assurance that my success isn’t to serve as a basis for any peril--or possibility--of its leaving the country?” Lord Theign was visibly astonished, but had also, independently of this, turned a shade pale. “You ask of me an ‘assurance’?” Hugh had now, with his firmness and his strained smile, quite the look of having counted the cost of his step. “I’m afraid I _must_, you see.” It pressed at once in his host the spring of a very grand manner. “And pray by what right here do you do anything of the sort?” “By the right of a person from whom you, on your side, are accepting a service.” Hugh had clearly determined in his opponent a rise of what is called spirit. “A service that you half an hour ago thrust on me, sir--and with which you may take it from me that I’m already quite prepared to dispense.” “I’m sorry to appear indiscreet,” our young man returned; “I’m sorry to have upset you in any way. But I can’t overcome my anxiety--” Lord Theign took the words from his lips. “And you therefore invite me--at the end of half an hour in this house!--to account to you for my personal intentions and my private affairs and make over my freedom to your hands?” Hugh stood there with his eyes on the black and white pavement that stretched about him--the great loz-enged marble floor that might have figured that ground of his own vision which he had made up his mind to “stand.” “I can only see the matter as I see it, and I should be ashamed not to have seized any chance to appeal to you.” Whatever difficulty he had had shyly to face didn’t exist for him now. “I entreat you to think again, to think _well_, before you deprive us of such a source of just envy.” “And you regard your entreaty as helped,” Lord Theign asked, “by the beautiful threat you are so good as to attach to it?” Then as his monitor, arrested, exchanged a searching look with Lady Grace, who, showing in her face all the pain of the business, stood off at the distance to which a woman instinctively retreats when a scene turns to violence as precipitately as this one appeared to strike her as having turned: “I ask you that not less than I should like to know whom you speak of as ‘deprived’ of property that happens--for reasons that I don’t suppose you also quarrel with!--to be mine.” “Well, I know nothing about threats, Lord Theign,” Hugh said, “but I speak of _all_ of us--of all the people of England; who would deeply deplore such an act of alienation, and whom, for the interest they bear you, I beseech you mercifully to consider.” “The interest they bear me?” --the master of Dedborough fairly bristled with wonder. “Pray how the devil do they show it?” “I think they show it in all sorts of ways” --and Hugh’s critical smile, at almost any moment hovering, played over the question in a manner seeming to convey that he meant many things. “Understand then, please,” said Lord Theign with every inch of his authority, “that they’ll show it best by minding their own business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.” Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. “Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder was to address herself directly to Hugh, across their companion. “Will you make your inquiry for _me_ then?” The light again kindled in him. “With all the pleasure in life!” He had found his cap and, taking them together, bowed to the two, for departure, with high emphasis of form. Then he marched off in the direction from which he had entered. Lord Theign scarce waited for his disappearance to turn in wrath to Lady Grace. “I denounce the indecency, wretched child, of your public defiance of me!” They were separated by a wide interval now, and though at her distance she met his reproof so unshrinkingly as perhaps to justify the terms into which it had broken, she became aware of a reason for his not following it up. She pronounced in quick warning “Lord John!” --for their friend, released from among the pictures, was rejoining them, was already there. He spoke straight to his host on coming into sight. “Bender’s at last off, but” --he indicated the direction of the garden front-- “you may still find him, out yonder, prolonging the agony with Lady Sand-gate.” Lord Theign remained a moment, and the heat of his resentment remained. He looked with a divided discretion, the pain of his indecision, from his daughter’s suitor and his approved candidate to that contumacious young woman and back again; then choosing his course in silence he had a gesture of almost desperate indifference and passed quickly out by the door to the terrace. It had left Lord John gaping. “What on earth’s the matter with your father?” “What on earth indeed?” Lady Grace unaidingly asked. “Is he discussing with that awful man?” “Old Bender? Do you think him so awful?” Lord John showed surprise--which might indeed have passed for harmless amusement; but he shook everything off in view of a nearer interest. He quite waved old Bender away. “My dear girl, what do _we_ care--?” “I care immensely, I assure you,” she interrupted, “and I ask of you, please, to tell me!” Her perversity, coming straight and which he had so little expected, threw him back so that he looked at her with sombre eyes. “Ah, it’s not for such a matter I’m here, Lady Grace--I’m here with that fond question of my own.” And then as she turned away, leaving him with a vehement motion of protest: “I’ve come for your kind answer--the answer your father instructed me to count on.” “I’ve no kind answer to give you!” --she raised forbidding hands. “I entreat you to leave me alone.” There was so high a spirit and so strong a force in it that he stared as if stricken by violence. “In God’s name then what has happened--when you almost gave me your word?” “What has happened is that I’ve found it impossible to listen to you.” And she moved as if fleeing she scarce knew whither before him. He had already hastened around another way, however, as to meet her in her quick circuit of the hall. “That’s all you’ve got to say to me after what has passed between us?” He had stopped her thus, but she had also stopped him, and her passionate denial set him a limit. “I’ve got to say--sorry as I am--that if you _must_ have an answer it’s this: that never, Lord John, never, can there be anything more between us.” And her gesture cleared her path, permitting her to achieve her flight. “Never, no, never,” she repeated as she went-- “never, never, never!” She got off by the door at which she had been aiming	Theign took the words from his lips. “And you therefore invite me--at the end of half an hour in this house!--to account to you for my personal intentions and my private affairs and make over my freedom to your hands?” Hugh stood there with his eyes on the black and white pavement that stretched about him--the great loz-enged marble floor that might have figured that ground of his own vision which he had made up his mind to “stand.” “I can only see the matter as I see it, and I should be ashamed not to have seized any chance to appeal to you.” Whatever difficulty he had had shyly to face didn’t exist for him now. “I entreat you to think again, to think _well_, before you deprive us of such a source of just envy.” “And you regard your entreaty as helped,” Lord Theign asked, “by the beautiful threat you are so good as to attach to it?” Then as his monitor, arrested, exchanged a searching look with Lady Grace, who, showing in her face all the pain of the business, stood off at the distance to which a woman instinctively retreats when a scene turns to violence as precipitately as this one appeared to strike her as having turned: “I ask you that not less than I should like to know whom you speak of as ‘deprived’ of property that happens--for reasons that I don’t suppose you also quarrel with!--to be mine.” “Well, I know nothing about threats, Lord Theign,” Hugh said, “but I speak of _all_ of us--of all the people of England; who would deeply deplore such an act of alienation, and whom, for the interest they bear you, I beseech you mercifully to consider.” “The interest they bear me?” --the master of Dedborough fairly bristled with wonder. “Pray how the devil do they show it?” “I think they show it in all sorts of ways” --and Hugh’s critical smile, at almost any moment hovering, played over the question in a manner seeming to convey that he meant many things. “Understand then, please,” said Lord Theign with every inch of his authority, “that they’ll show it best by minding their own business while I very particularly mind mine.” “You simply do, in other words,” Hugh explicitly concluded, “what happens to be convenient to you.” “In very distinct preference to what happens to be convenient to _you!_ So that I need no longer detain you,” Lord Theign added with the last dryness and as if to wind up their brief and thankless connection. The young man took his dismissal, being able to do no less, while, unsatisfied and unhappy, he looked about mechanically for the cycling-cap he had laid down somewhere in the hall on his arrival. “I apologise, my lord, if I seem to you to have ill repaid your hospitality. But,” he went on with his uncommended cheer, “my interest in your picture remains.” Lady Grace, who had stopped and strayed and stopped again as a mere watchful witness, drew nearer hereupon, breaking her silence for the first time. “And please let me say, father, that mine also grows and grows.” It was obvious that this parent, surprised and disconcerted by her tone, judged her contribution superfluous. “I’m happy to hear it, Grace--but yours is another affair.” “I think on the contrary that it’s quite the same one,” she returned--<\|quote\|>“since it’s on my hint to him that Mr. Crimble has said to you what he has.”</\|quote\|>The resolution she had gathered while she awaited her chance sat in her charming eyes, which met, as she spoke, the straighter paternal glare. “I let him know that I supposed you to think of profiting by the importance of Mr. Bender’s visit.” “Then you might have spared, my dear, your--I suppose and hope well-meant--interpretation of my mind.” Lord Theign showed himself at this point master of the beautiful art of righting himself as without having been in the wrong. “Mr. Bender’s visit will terminate--as soon as he has released Lord John--without my having profited in the smallest particular.” Hugh meanwhile evidently but wanted to speak for his friend. “It was Lady Grace’s anxious inference, she will doubtless let me say for her, that my idea about the Moretto would add to your power--well,” he pushed on not without awkwardness, “of ‘realising’ advantageously on such a prospective rise.” Lord Theign glanced at him as for positively the last time, but spoke to Lady Grace. “Understand then, please, that, as I detach myself from any association with this gentleman’s ideas--whether about the Moretto or about anything else--his further application of them ceases from this moment to concern us.” The girl’s rejoinder was to address herself directly to Hugh, across their companion. “Will you make your inquiry for _me_ then?” The light again kindled in him. “With all the pleasure in life!” He had found his cap and, taking them together, bowed to the two, for departure, with high emphasis of form. Then he marched off in the direction from which he had entered. Lord Theign scarce waited for his disappearance to turn in wrath to Lady Grace. “I denounce the indecency, wretched child, of your public defiance of me!” They were	The Outcry
"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."	Mr. Hastings	Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr.	going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know.	did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this	I run! I leap!" And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window. "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad. It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, _I_ thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively. "You are an excellent advocate, I have no	bell?" Dorcas looked very surprised. "Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning." With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room. "See you, one should not ask for outside proof no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!" And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window. "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad. It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, _I_ thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively. "You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me." I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind. "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?" I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort. "Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your	to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful." "What did she mean by" On the top of the wardrobe'?" "She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of a wardrobe." "A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused. "Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye." "Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about this crime?" "Yes that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed." "Ah!" "Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless" With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, _un moment, s'il vous pla t!_" Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry. "My good Dorcas, I have an idea a little idea if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?" Dorcas looked very surprised. "Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning." With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room. "See you, one should not ask for outside proof no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!" And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window. "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad. It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, _I_ thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively. "You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me." I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind. "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?" I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort. "Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are _not_ happy." I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished. She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me. "You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I come from, who I was before I married John anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think yes, I am sure you are kind." Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a young man. "My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a Russian." "Ah," I said, "now I understand" "Understand what?" "A hint of something foreign different that there has always been about you." "My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died	about all over the country!" I cried indignantly. "Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful," remarked Poirot. "So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved." "Then you think he never really cared for her?" I asked eagerly rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances. "That, of course, I cannot say, but shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?" "Yes." "Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!" "Do you really think so?" I could not disguise my pleasure. "I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why." "Yes?" "Because she cares for someone else, _mon ami_." "Oh!" What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmth spread over me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned, but I remembered certain evidences, too lightly thought of at the time, perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Miss Howard. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was no one else in the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown paper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she did so the cryptic words: "On top of the wardrobe." Then she hurriedly left the room. Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He spread it out on the table. "Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial J. or L.?" It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though it had lain by for some time. But it was the label that was attracting Poirot's attention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson's, the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to " (the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex." "It might be T., or it might be L.," I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. "It certainly isn't a J." "Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. "I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!" "Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?" "Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful." "What did she mean by" On the top of the wardrobe'?" "She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of a wardrobe." "A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused. "Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye." "Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about this crime?" "Yes that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed." "Ah!" "Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless" With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, _un moment, s'il vous pla t!_" Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry. "My good Dorcas, I have an idea a little idea if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?" Dorcas looked very surprised. "Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning." With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room. "See you, one should not ask for outside proof no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!" And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window. "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad. It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, _I_ thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively. "You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me." I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind. "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?" I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort. "Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are _not_ happy." I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished. She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me. "You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I come from, who I was before I married John anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think yes, I am sure you are kind." Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a young man. "My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a Russian." "Ah," I said, "now I understand" "Understand what?" "A hint of something foreign different that there has always been about you." "My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was some tragedy connected with her death she took an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life I loved it." There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old glad days. "Then my father died. He left me very badly off. I had to go and live with some old aunts in Yorkshire." She shuddered. "You will understand me when I say that it was a deadly life for a girl brought up as I had been. The narrowness, the deadly monotony of it, almost drove me mad." She paused a minute, and added in a different tone: "And then I met John Cavendish." "Yes?" "You can imagine that, from my aunts' point of view, it was a very good match for me. But I can honestly say it was not this fact which weighed with me. No, he was simply a way of escape from the insufferable monotony of my life." I said nothing, and after a moment, she went on: "Don't misunderstand me. I was quite honest with him. I told him, what was true, that I liked him very much, that I hoped to come to like him more, but that I was not in any way what the world calls in love' with him. He declared that that satisfied him, and so we were married." She waited a long time, a little frown had gathered on her forehead. She seemed to be looking back earnestly into those past days. "I think I am sure he cared for me at first. But I suppose we were not well matched. Almost at once, we drifted apart. He it is not a pleasing thing for my pride, but it is the truth tired of me very soon." I must have made some murmur of dissent, for she went on quickly: "Oh, yes, he did! Not that it matters now now that we've come to the parting of the ways." "What do you mean?" She answered quietly: "I mean that I am not going to remain at	the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson's, the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to " (the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex." "It might be T., or it might be L.," I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. "It certainly isn't a J." "Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. "I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!" "Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?" "Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful." "What did she mean by" On the top of the wardrobe'?" "She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of a wardrobe." "A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused. "Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye." "Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about this crime?" "Yes that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed." "Ah!" "Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless" With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, _un moment, s'il vous pla t!_" Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry. "My good Dorcas, I have an idea a little idea if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?" Dorcas looked very surprised. "Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning." With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room. "See you, one should not ask for outside proof no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!" And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window. "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?" "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!" Mary laughed. "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"<\|quote\|>"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."</\|quote\|>"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?" "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness." "I see." In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad. It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, _I_ thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively. "You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me." I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind. "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?" I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort. "Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are _not_ happy." I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished. She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me. "You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I come from, who I was before I married John anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think yes, I am sure you are kind." Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a young man. "My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a Russian." "Ah," I said, "now I understand" "Understand what?" "A hint of something foreign different that there has always been about you." "My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was some tragedy connected with her death she took an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life I loved it." There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old glad days. "Then my father died. He left	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.	No speaker	pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking	me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and	I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle	"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the" "No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear,"	your eyes, and hold up your head, sir." Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. "Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the" "No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again. "Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small." "Why, he _is_ rather small," replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; "he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry he'll grow." "Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However,	had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering. For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. "Oliver!" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice. "Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir." Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. "Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the" "No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again. "Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small." "Why, he _is_ rather small," replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; "he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry he'll grow." "Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o' bones." With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated "kitchen"; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair. "Here, Charlotte," said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, "give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em are you, boy?" Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him. I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver	their spirit down for 'em." "Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice: "Well; what about the boy?" "Oh!" replied the undertaker; "why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor's rates." "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble. "Well?" "Well," replied the undertaker, "I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so I think I'll take the boy myself." Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening "upon liking" a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with. When little Oliver was taken before "the gentlemen" that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith. Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering. For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. "Oliver!" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice. "Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir." Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. "Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the" "No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again. "Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small." "Why, he _is_ rather small," replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; "he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry he'll grow." "Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o' bones." With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated "kitchen"; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair. "Here, Charlotte," said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, "give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em are you, boy?" Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him. I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish. "Well," said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: "have you done?" There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative. "Then come with me," said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; "your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much matter whether you do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else. Come; don't keep me here all night!" Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress. CHAPTER V. OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S BUSINESS Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp down on a workman's bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave. Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He	if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith. Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering. For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage. "Oliver!" said Mr. Bumble. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice. "Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir." Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers. "Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the" "No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so so" "So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!"<\|quote\|>The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony. Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence. The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.</\|quote\|>"Aha!" said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow. "Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance. "My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again. "Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small." "Why, he _is_ rather small," replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; "he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry he'll grow." "Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o' bones." With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated "kitchen"; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair. "Here, Charlotte," said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, "give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em are you, boy?" Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him. I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish. "Well," said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: "have you done?" There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative. "Then come with me," said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; "your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much matter whether you do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else. Come; don't keep me here all night!" Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress. CHAPTER V. OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S BUSINESS Oliver, being left to himself	Oliver Twist
"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"	Harry Maylie	are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied	my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you	say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you	at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was	for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage. "Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day." "Halloa!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; "something very short of flying will keep pace with _me_. Do you hear?" Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise	to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?" "I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver. "That's a fine fellow," said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?" "The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them." "Well," said the doctor, "you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage. "Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day." "Halloa!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; "something very short of flying will keep pace with _me_. Do you hear?" Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed. And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself. "He seems in high spirits and happy," she said, at length. "I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad." Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy. CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily	should have been happier." Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they relieved her. "I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger," said Rose, extending her hand. "I must leave you now, indeed." "I ask one promise," said Harry. "Once, and only once more, say within a year, but it may be much sooner, I may speak to you again on this subject, for the last time." "Not to press me to alter my right determination," replied Rose, with a melancholy smile; "it will be useless." "No," said Harry; "to hear you repeat it, if you will finally repeat it! I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may possess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or act, to change it." "Then let it be so," rejoined Rose; "it is but one pang the more, and by that time I may be enabled to bear it better." She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room. CHAPTER XXXVI. IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES "And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?" said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-table. "Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours together!" "You will tell me a different tale one of these days," said Harry, colouring without any perceptible reason. "I hope I may have good cause to do so," replied Mr. Losberne; "though I confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you had made up your mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce that you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?" "I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver. "That's a fine fellow," said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication from the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?" "The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation, I presume, you include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them." "Well," said the doctor, "you are a queer fellow. But of course they will get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage. "Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day." "Halloa!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; "something very short of flying will keep pace with _me_. Do you hear?" Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed. And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself. "He seems in high spirits and happy," she said, at length. "I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad." Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy. CHAPTER XXXVII. IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN MATRIMONIAL CASES Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on the cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which were sent back from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy net-work, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might be that the insects brought to mind, some painful passage in his own past life. Nor was Mr. Bumble's gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting other appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his affairs. The laced coat, and the cocked hat; where were they? He still wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were not _the_ breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respect like _the_ coat, but, oh how different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced by a modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle. There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more substantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity from the coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle his cocked hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine. Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. Another beadle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, and staff, had all three descended. "And to-morrow two months it was done!" said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. "It seems a age." Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of happiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh there was a vast deal of meaning in the sigh. "I sold myself," said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of relection, "for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small	get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes." Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject no farther. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it packed. "Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with you." Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole behaviour displayed. "You can write well now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm. "I hope so, sir," replied Oliver. "I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would write to me say once a fort-night: every alternate Monday: to the General Post Office in London. Will you?" "Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly delighted with the commission. "I should like to know how how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young man;<\|quote\|>"and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and what you talk about, and whether she they, I mean seem happy and quite well. You understand me?"</\|quote\|>"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver. "I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you." Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection. The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed window, and jumped into the carriage. "Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying will keep pace with me, to-day." "Halloa!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, and shouting to the postillion; "something very short of flying will keep pace with _me_. Do you hear?" Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly disappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed. And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself. "He seems in high spirits and happy," she said, at length. "I feared for a time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad." Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same	Oliver Twist
This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.	No speaker	is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls,"	pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at	age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine	of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility,	hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here." This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but we are told to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!" "The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother and "I should have known her anywhere for his sister!" was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent	a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman s love is declared,[1] it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney s being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire. [1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler. CHAPTER 4 With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here." This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but we are told to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!" "The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother and "I should have known her anywhere for his sister!" was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love. Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London;	"strange." "I am quite of your opinion, sir," replied Mrs. Allen; "and so I told Miss Morland when she bought it." "But then you know, madam, muslin always turns to some account or other; Miss Morland will get enough out of it for a handkerchief, or a cap, or a cloak. Muslin can never be said to be wasted. I have heard my sister say so forty times, when she has been extravagant in buying more than she wanted, or careless in cutting it to pieces." "Bath is a charming place, sir; there are so many good shops here. We are sadly off in the country; not but what we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it is so far to go eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it is nine, measured nine; but I am sure it cannot be more than eight; and it is such a fag I come back tired to death. Now, here one can step out of doors and get a thing in five minutes." Mr. Tilney was polite enough to seem interested in what she said; and she kept him on the subject of muslins till the dancing recommenced. Catherine feared, as she listened to their discourse, that he indulged himself a little too much with the foibles of others. "What are you thinking of so earnestly?" said he, as they walked back to the ballroom; "not of your partner, I hope, for, by that shake of the head, your meditations are not satisfactory." Catherine coloured, and said, "I was not thinking of anything." "That is artful and deep, to be sure; but I had rather be told at once that you will not tell me." "Well then, I will not." "Thank you; for now we shall soon be acquainted, as I am authorized to tease you on this subject whenever we meet, and nothing in the world advances intimacy so much." They danced again; and, when the assembly closed, parted, on the lady s side at least, with a strong inclination for continuing the acquaintance. Whether she thought of him so much, while she drank her warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman s love is declared,[1] it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney s being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire. [1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler. CHAPTER 4 With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here." This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but we are told to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!" "The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother and "I should have known her anywhere for his sister!" was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the eldest Miss Thorpe, and take a turn with her about the room. Catherine was delighted with this extension of her Bath acquaintance, and almost forgot Mr. Tilney while she talked to Miss Thorpe. Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love. Their conversation turned upon those subjects, of which the free discussion has generally much to do in perfecting a sudden intimacy between two young ladies: such as dress, balls, flirtations, and quizzes. Miss Thorpe, however, being four years older than Miss Morland, and at least four years better informed, had a very decided advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge, its fashions with the fashions of London; could rectify the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful attire; could discover a flirtation between any gentleman and lady who only smiled on each other; and point out a quiz through the thickness of a crowd. These powers received due admiration from Catherine, to whom they were entirely new; and the respect which they naturally inspired might have been too great for familiarity, had not the easy gaiety of Miss Thorpe s manners, and her frequent expressions of delight on this acquaintance with her, softened down every feeling of awe, and left nothing but tender affection. Their increasing attachment was not to be satisfied with half a dozen turns in the pump-room, but required, when they all quitted it together, that Miss Thorpe should accompany Miss Morland to the very door of Mr. Allen s house; and that they should there part with a most affectionate and lengthened shake of hands, after learning, to their mutual relief, that they should see each other across the theatre at night, and say their prayers in the same chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran directly upstairs, and watched Miss Thorpe s progress down the street from the drawing-room window; admired the graceful spirit of her walk, the fashionable air of her figure and dress; and felt grateful, as well she might, for the chance which had procured her such a friend. Mrs. Thorpe was a widow, and not a very rich one; she was a good-humoured, well-meaning woman, and a very indulgent mother. Her eldest daughter had great personal beauty, and the younger ones, by pretending to be as handsome as their sister, imitating her air, and dressing in the same style, did very well. This brief account of the family is intended to supersede the necessity of a long and minute detail from Mrs. Thorpe herself, of her past adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy the three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of lords and attorneys might be set forth, and conversations, which had passed twenty years before, be minutely repeated. CHAPTER 5 Catherine was not so much engaged at the theatre that evening, in returning the nods and smiles of Miss Thorpe, though they certainly claimed much of her leisure, as to forget to look with an inquiring eye for Mr. Tilney in every box which her eye could	drank her warm wine and water, and prepared herself for bed, as to dream of him when there, cannot be ascertained; but I hope it was no more than in a slight slumber, or a morning doze at most; for if it be true, as a celebrated writer has maintained, that no young lady can be justified in falling in love before the gentleman s love is declared,[1] it must be very improper that a young lady should dream of a gentleman before the gentleman is first known to have dreamt of her. How proper Mr. Tilney might be as a dreamer or a lover had not yet perhaps entered Mr. Allen s head, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young charge he was on inquiry satisfied; for he had early in the evening taken pains to know who her partner was, and had been assured of Mr. Tilney s being a clergyman, and of a very respectable family in Gloucestershire. [1] Vide a letter from Mr. Richardson, No. 97, Vol. ii, Rambler. CHAPTER 4 With more than usual eagerness did Catherine hasten to the pump-room the next day, secure within herself of seeing Mr. Tilney there before the morning were over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was demanded Mr. Tilney did not appear. Every creature in Bath, except himself, was to be seen in the room at different periods of the fashionable hours; crowds of people were every moment passing in and out, up the steps and down; people whom nobody cared about, and nobody wanted to see; and he only was absent. "What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. Allen as they sat down near the great clock, after parading the room till they were tired; "and how pleasant it would be if we had any acquaintance here." This sentiment had been uttered so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope it would be followed with more advantage now; but we are told to "despair of nothing we would attain," as "unwearied diligence our point would gain"; and the unwearied diligence with which she had every day wished for the same thing was at length to have its just reward, for hardly had she been seated ten minutes before a lady of about her own age, who was sitting by her, and had been looking at her attentively for several minutes, addressed her with great complaisance in these words: "I think, madam, I cannot be mistaken; it is a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but is not your name Allen?"<\|quote\|>This question answered, as it readily was, the stranger pronounced hers to be Thorpe; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the features of a former schoolfellow and intimate, whom she had seen only once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy on this meeting was very great, as well it might, since they had been contented to know nothing of each other for the last fifteen years. Compliments on good looks now passed; and, after observing how time had slipped away since they were last together, how little they had thought of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they proceeded to make inquiries and give intelligence as to their families, sisters, and cousins, talking both together, far more ready to give than to receive information, and each hearing very little of what the other said. Mrs. Thorpe, however, had one great advantage as a talker, over Mrs. Allen, in a family of children; and when she expatiated on the talents of her sons, and the beauty of her daughters, when she related their different situations and views that John was at Oxford, Edward at Merchant Taylors , and William at sea and all of them more beloved and respected in their different station than any other three beings ever were, Mrs. Allen had no similar information to give, no similar triumphs to press on the unwilling and unbelieving ear of her friend, and was forced to sit and appear to listen to all these maternal effusions, consoling herself, however, with the discovery, which her keen eye soon made, that the lace on Mrs. Thorpe s pelisse was not half so handsome as that on her own.</\|quote\|>"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Thorpe, pointing at three smart-looking females who, arm in arm, were then moving towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them; they will be so delighted to see you: the tallest is Isabella, my eldest; is not she a fine young woman? The others are very much admired too, but I believe Isabella is the handsomest." The Miss Thorpes were introduced; and Miss Morland, who had been for a short time forgotten, was introduced likewise. The name seemed to strike them all; and, after speaking to her with great civility, the eldest young lady observed aloud to the rest, "How excessively like her brother Miss Morland is!" "The very picture of him indeed!" cried the mother and "I should have known her anywhere for his sister!" was repeated by them all, two or three times over. For a moment Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Thorpe and her daughters had scarcely begun the history of their acquaintance with Mr. James Morland, before she remembered that her eldest brother had lately formed an intimacy with a young man of his own college, of the name of Thorpe; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas vacation with his family, near London. The whole being explained, many obliging things were said by the Miss Thorpes of their wish of being better acquainted with her; of being considered as already friends, through the friendship of their brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure, and answered with all the pretty expressions she could command; and, as the first proof of amity, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the	Northanger Abbey
"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"	Anne Shirley	as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually	have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her	life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think,	an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs.	work in Miss Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness. The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on "A Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it behooved them to be observant. "Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne in an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their besetting sins just like everybody else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving very hard to overcome it and now	look back to them." Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old groove and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, and a promising friendship of three years was broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not "speak" for three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell's bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little they had to do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne Shirley put on airs about her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon was "licked"; consequently Moody Spurgeon's sister, Ella May, would not "speak" to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter. With the exception of these trifling frictions, work in Miss Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness. The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on "A Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it behooved them to be observant. "Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne in an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their besetting sins just like everybody else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving very hard to overcome it and now that I'm really thirteen perhaps I'll get on better." "In four more years we'll be able to put our hair up," said Diana. "Alice Bell is only sixteen and she is wearing hers up, but I think that's ridiculous. I shall wait until I'm seventeen." "If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose," said Anne decidedly, "I wouldn't--but there! I won't say what I was going to because it was extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with my own nose and that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about my nose ever since I heard that compliment about it long ago. It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, look, there's a rabbit. That's something to remember for our woods composition. I really think the woods are just as lovely in winter as in summer. They're so white and still, as if they were asleep and dreaming pretty dreams." "I won't mind writing that composition when its time comes," sighed Diana. "I can manage to write about the woods, but the one we're to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write a story out of our own heads!" "Why, it's	of Anne tonight, although I'm not going to tell her so." "Well now, I was proud of her and I did tell her so ?fore she went upstairs," said Matthew. "We must see what we can do for her some of these days, Marilla. I guess she'll need something more than Avonlea school by and by." "There's time enough to think of that," said Marilla. "She's only thirteen in March. Though tonight it struck me she was growing quite a big girl. Mrs. Lynde made that dress a mite too long, and it makes Anne look so tall. She's quick to learn and I guess the best thing we can do for her will be to send her to Queen's after a spell. But nothing need be said about that for a year or two yet." "Well now, it'll do no harm to be thinking it over off and on," said Matthew. "Things like that are all the better for lots of thinking over." CHAPTER XXVI. The Story Club Is Formed \|JUNIOR Avonlea found it hard to settle down to humdrum existence again. To Anne in particular things seemed fearfully flat, stale, and unprofitable after the goblet of excitement she had been sipping for weeks. Could she go back to the former quiet pleasures of those faraway days before the concert? At first, as she told Diana, she did not really think she could. "I'm positively certain, Diana, that life can never be quite the same again as it was in those olden days," she said mournfully, as if referring to a period of at least fifty years back. "Perhaps after a while I'll get used to it, but I'm afraid concerts spoil people for everyday life. I suppose that is why Marilla disapproves of them. Marilla is such a sensible woman. It must be a great deal better to be sensible; but still, I don't believe I'd really want to be a sensible person, because they are so unromantic. Mrs. Lynde says there is no danger of my ever being one, but you can never tell. I feel just now that I may grow up to be sensible yet. But perhaps that is only because I'm tired. I simply couldn't sleep last night for ever so long. I just lay awake and imagined the concert over and over again. That's one splendid thing about such affairs--it's so lovely to look back to them." Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old groove and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, and a promising friendship of three years was broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not "speak" for three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell's bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little they had to do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne Shirley put on airs about her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon was "licked"; consequently Moody Spurgeon's sister, Ella May, would not "speak" to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter. With the exception of these trifling frictions, work in Miss Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness. The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on "A Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it behooved them to be observant. "Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne in an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their besetting sins just like everybody else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving very hard to overcome it and now that I'm really thirteen perhaps I'll get on better." "In four more years we'll be able to put our hair up," said Diana. "Alice Bell is only sixteen and she is wearing hers up, but I think that's ridiculous. I shall wait until I'm seventeen." "If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose," said Anne decidedly, "I wouldn't--but there! I won't say what I was going to because it was extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with my own nose and that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about my nose ever since I heard that compliment about it long ago. It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, look, there's a rabbit. That's something to remember for our woods composition. I really think the woods are just as lovely in winter as in summer. They're so white and still, as if they were asleep and dreaming pretty dreams." "I won't mind writing that composition when its time comes," sighed Diana. "I can manage to write about the woods, but the one we're to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write a story out of our own heads!" "Why, it's as easy as wink," said Anne. "It's easy for you because you have an imagination," retorted Diana, "but what would you do if you had been born without one? I suppose you have your composition all done?" Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtuously complacent and failing miserably. "I wrote it last Monday evening. It's called ?The Jealous Rival; or In Death Not Divided.' I read it to Marilla and she said it was stuff and nonsense. Then I read it to Matthew and he said it was fine. That is the kind of critic I like. It's a sad, sweet story. I just cried like a child while I was writing it. It's about two beautiful maidens called Cordelia Montmorency and Geraldine Seymour who lived in the same village and were devotedly attached to each other. Cordelia was a regal brunette with a coronet of midnight hair and duskly flashing eyes. Geraldine was a queenly blonde with hair like spun gold and velvety purple eyes." "I never saw anybody with purple eyes," said Diana dubiously. "Neither did I. I just imagined them. I wanted something out of the common. Geraldine had an alabaster brow too. I've found out what an alabaster brow is. That is one of the advantages of being thirteen. You know so much more than you did when you were only twelve." "Well, what became of Cordelia and Geraldine?" asked Diana, who was beginning to feel rather interested in their fate. "They grew in beauty side by side until they were sixteen. Then Bertram DeVere came to their native village and fell in love with the fair Geraldine. He saved her life when her horse ran away with her in a carriage, and she fainted in his arms and he carried her home three miles; because, you understand, the carriage was all smashed up. I found it rather hard to imagine the proposal because I had no experience to go by. I asked Ruby Gillis if she knew anything about how men proposed because I thought she'd likely be an authority on the subject, having so many sisters married. Ruby told me she was hid in the hall pantry when Malcolm Andres proposed to her sister Susan. She said Malcolm told Susan that his dad had given him the farm in his own name and then said," ?What do you say, darling pet, if we	such affairs--it's so lovely to look back to them." Eventually, however, Avonlea school slipped back into its old groove and took up its old interests. To be sure, the concert left traces. Ruby Gillis and Emma White, who had quarreled over a point of precedence in their platform seats, no longer sat at the same desk, and a promising friendship of three years was broken up. Josie Pye and Julia Bell did not "speak" for three months, because Josie Pye had told Bessie Wright that Julia Bell's bow when she got up to recite made her think of a chicken jerking its head, and Bessie told Julia. None of the Sloanes would have any dealings with the Bells, because the Bells had declared that the Sloanes had too much to do in the program, and the Sloanes had retorted that the Bells were not capable of doing the little they had to do properly. Finally, Charlie Sloane fought Moody Spurgeon MacPherson, because Moody Spurgeon had said that Anne Shirley put on airs about her recitations, and Moody Spurgeon was "licked"; consequently Moody Spurgeon's sister, Ella May, would not "speak" to Anne Shirley all the rest of the winter. With the exception of these trifling frictions, work in Miss Stacy's little kingdom went on with regularity and smoothness. The winter weeks slipped by. It was an unusually mild winter, with so little snow that Anne and Diana could go to school nearly every day by way of the Birch Path. On Anne's birthday they were tripping lightly down it, keeping eyes and ears alert amid all their chatter, for Miss Stacy had told them that they must soon write a composition on "A Winter's Walk in the Woods," and it behooved them to be observant. "Just think, Diana, I'm thirteen years old today," remarked Anne in an awed voice. "I can scarcely realize that I'm in my teens. When I woke this morning it seemed to me that everything must be different. You've been thirteen for a month, so I suppose it doesn't seem such a novelty to you as it does to me. It makes life seem so much more interesting. In two more years I'll be really grown up. It's a great comfort to think that I'll be able to use big words then without being laughed at." "Ruby Gillis says she means to have a beau as soon as she's fifteen," said Diana.<\|quote\|>"Ruby Gillis thinks of nothing but beaus,"</\|quote\|>said Anne disdainfully. "She's actually delighted when anyone writes her name up in a take-notice for all she pretends to be so mad. But I'm afraid that is an uncharitable speech. Mrs. Allan says we should never make uncharitable speeches; but they do slip out so often before you think, don't they? I simply can't talk about Josie Pye without making an uncharitable speech, so I never mention her at all. You may have noticed that. I'm trying to be as much like Mrs. Allan as I possibly can, for I think she's perfect. Mr. Allan thinks so too. Mrs. Lynde says he just worships the ground she treads on and she doesn't really think it right for a minister to set his affections so much on a mortal being. But then, Diana, even ministers are human and have their besetting sins just like everybody else. I had such an interesting talk with Mrs. Allan about besetting sins last Sunday afternoon. There are just a few things it's proper to talk about on Sundays and that is one of them. My besetting sin is imagining too much and forgetting my duties. I'm striving very hard to overcome it and now that I'm really thirteen perhaps I'll get on better." "In four more years we'll be able to put our hair up," said Diana. "Alice Bell is only sixteen and she is wearing hers up, but I think that's ridiculous. I shall wait until I'm seventeen." "If I had Alice Bell's crooked nose," said Anne decidedly, "I wouldn't--but there! I won't say what I was going to because it was extremely uncharitable. Besides, I was comparing it with my own nose and that's vanity. I'm afraid I think too much about my nose ever since I heard that compliment about it long ago. It really is a great comfort to me. Oh, Diana, look, there's a rabbit. That's something to remember for our woods composition. I really think the woods are just as lovely in winter as in summer. They're so white and still, as if they were asleep and dreaming pretty dreams." "I won't mind writing that composition when its time comes," sighed Diana. "I can manage to write about the woods, but the one we're to hand in Monday is terrible. The idea of Miss Stacy telling us to write a story out of our own heads!" "Why, it's as easy as wink," said Anne. "It's easy for you because you have an imagination," retorted Diana, "but what would you do if you had been born without one? I suppose you have your composition all done?" Anne nodded, trying hard not to look virtuously complacent and failing miserably. "I wrote it last Monday evening. It's called ?The	Anne Of Green Gables
said Mr. Grimwig, at length.	No speaker	"That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr.	inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?"	in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for	I called out of the window, he's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do. "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly. "Don't know?" "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only	and his too." "No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend." "I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I _know_ it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. Don't go to him,' I called out of the window, he's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do. "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly. "Don't know?" "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys." "And which is Oliver?" "Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!" "Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath." "They are not,"	was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder. "I'll eat my head, sir," repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. "Hallo! what's that!" looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two. "This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about," said Mr. Brownlow. Oliver bowed. "You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?" said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. "Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop" continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; "that's the boy who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too." "No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend." "I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I _know_ it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. Don't go to him,' I called out of the window, he's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do. "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly. "Don't know?" "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys." "And which is Oliver?" "Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!" "Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath." "They are not," replied Mr. Grimwig. "He may have worse." Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight. "He may have worse, I say," repeated Mr. Grimwig. "Where does he come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven't they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!" Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until	while I live." Oliver's sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig. "Is he coming up?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "Yes, sir," replied the servant. "He asked if there were any muffins in the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea." Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know. "Shall I go downstairs, sir?" inquired Oliver. "No," replied Mr. Brownlow, "I would rather you remained here." At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice. "Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I can't call at a man's house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon's friend on the staircase? I've been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!" This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder. "I'll eat my head, sir," repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. "Hallo! what's that!" looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two. "This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about," said Mr. Brownlow. Oliver bowed. "You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?" said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. "Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop" continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; "that's the boy who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too." "No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend." "I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I _know_ it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. Don't go to him,' I called out of the window, he's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do. "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly. "Don't know?" "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys." "And which is Oliver?" "Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!" "Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath." "They are not," replied Mr. Grimwig. "He may have worse." Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight. "He may have worse, I say," repeated Mr. Grimwig. "Where does he come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven't they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!" Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn't find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to and so forth. All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman: knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman's presence. "And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?" asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed his subject. "To-morrow morning," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I would rather he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, my dear." "Yes, sir," replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig's looking so hard at him. "I'll tell you what," whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; "he won't come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my good friend." "I'll swear he is not," replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly. "If he is not," said Mr. Grimwig, "I'll" and down went the stick. "I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!" said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table. "And I for his falsehood with my head!" rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also. "We shall see," said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger. "We will," replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; "we will." As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identical bookstall-keeper, who has already figured in this history; having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the room. "Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!" said Mr. Brownlow; "there is something to go back." "He has gone, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin. "Call after him," said Mr. Brownlow; "it's particular. He is a poor man, and they are not	or I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!" This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder. "I'll eat my head, sir," repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. "Hallo! what's that!" looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two. "This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about," said Mr. Brownlow. Oliver bowed. "You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?" said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. "Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop" continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; "that's the boy who had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too." "No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend." "I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I _know_ it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. Don't go to him,' I called out of the window, he's an assassin! A man-trap!' So he is. If he is not" Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the boy, is it?"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Grimwig, at length.</\|quote\|>"That's the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow. "How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig. "A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver. Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to do. "He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow. "I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly. "Don't know?" "No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys." "And which is Oliver?" "Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!" "Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath." "They are not," replied Mr. Grimwig. "He may have worse." Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight. "He may have worse, I say," repeated Mr. Grimwig. "Where does he come from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven't they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!" Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn't find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to and so forth. All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman: knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel	Oliver Twist
"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."	Miss Bingley	in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But	neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you	you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I	fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near	in anything else." "I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things." "In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. "And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to	very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world," replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend's vulgar relations. With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. "Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular." "Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else." "I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things." "In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. "And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished, as they all are." "All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?" "Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished." "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley. "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must	of pride and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added, "She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild." "She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!" "Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to hide it, not doing its office." "Your picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley; "but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well, when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice." "_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley; "and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such an exhibition." "Certainly not." "To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by it? It seems to me to shew an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country town indifference to decorum." "It shews an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," said Bingley. "I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper, "that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes." "Not at all," he replied; "they were brightened by the exercise." "--A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again. "I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it." "I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney in Meryton." "Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside." "That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily. "If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside," cried Bingley, "it would not make them one jot less agreeable." "But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world," replied Darcy. To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend's vulgar relations. With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. "Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular." "Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else." "I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things." "In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. "And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished, as they all are." "All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?" "Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished." "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley. "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved." "All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading." "I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_." "Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all this?" "_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united." Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room. "Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art." "Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable." Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject. Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced	for the short time she could stay below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment. "Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular." "Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else." "I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am _not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things." "In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well." Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others; all that his library afforded. "And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into." Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room. "I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!" "It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations." "And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books." "I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."<\|quote\|>"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."</\|quote\|>"I wish it may." "But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire." "With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it." "I am talking of possibilities, Charles." "Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation." Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game. "Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?" "I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." "How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite." "It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished, as they all are." "All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?" "Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished." "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished." "Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley. "Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." "Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it." "Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved." "All this she must possess,"	Pride And Prejudice
said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.	No speaker	great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No."	from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy	premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some	dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as	with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen. But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark myself only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!" Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!" the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so. This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without	the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less, in the bluchers. "Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" said this strange young gentleman to Oliver. "I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days." "Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on." Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by the term in question. "My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?" "What mill?" inquired Oliver. "What mill! Why, _the_ mill the mill as takes up so little room that it'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind's low with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen. But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark myself only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!" Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!" the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so. This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned. Mr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his patron's interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet of "The Artful Dodger," Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther acquaintance. As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John's Road; struck down the small street which terminates at	own lonesomeness and desolation, as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step. By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up; and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat. He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with ease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and determination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by observing that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long, that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said, "Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment and would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought it back to its old place again. He wore a man's coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less, in the bluchers. "Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" said this strange young gentleman to Oliver. "I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days." "Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on." Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by the term in question. "My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?" "What mill?" inquired Oliver. "What mill! Why, _the_ mill the mill as takes up so little room that it'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind's low with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen. But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark myself only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!" Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!" the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so. This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned. Mr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his patron's interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet of "The Artful Dodger," Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther acquaintance. As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John's Road; struck down the small street which terminates at Sadler's Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the workhouse; across the classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels. Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours. There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place, were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here and there diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth; and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless errands. Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him into the passage, closed it behind them. "Now, then!" cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger. "Plummy and slam!" was the reply. This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage; and a man's face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away. "There's two on you," said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shielding his eyes with his hand. "Who's the t'other one?" "A new pal," replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward. "Where did he come from?" "Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?" "Yes, he's a sortin' the wipes.	gentleman to Oliver. "I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver: the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days." "Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on." Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by the term in question. "My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?" "What mill?" inquired Oliver. "What mill! Why, _the_ mill the mill as takes up so little room that it'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind's low with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen. But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark myself only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!" Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!" the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention. "Going to London?"<\|quote\|>said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.</\|quote\|>"Yes." "Got any lodgings?" "No." "Money?" "No." The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. "Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver. "Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?" "I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country." "Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so. This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned. Mr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his	Oliver Twist
I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.	No speaker	you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a	me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so	show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss	only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away.	the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against	Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!" I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point." Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself." "Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was a very ridiculous one, no doubt that she had intended to poison him and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree." "Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction,	thoughtfully down the corridor in front of me. An idea struck me. With the exception of Cynthia Murdoch's, everyone's room was in this left wing. Had that anything to do with it? Was I to report who came or went? I stood faithfully at my post. The minutes passed. Nobody came. Nothing happened. It must have been quite twenty minutes before Poirot rejoined me. "You have not stirred?" "No, I've stuck here like a rock. Nothing's happened." "Ah!" Was he pleased, or disappointed? "You've seen nothing at all?" "No." "But you have probably heard something? A big bump eh, _mon ami?_" "No." "Is it possible? Ah, but I am vexed with myself! I am not usually clumsy. I made but a slight gesture" I know Poirot's gestures "with the left hand, and over went the table by the bed!" He looked so childishly vexed and crest-fallen that I hastened to console him. "Never mind, old chap. What does it matter? Your triumph downstairs excited you. I can tell you, that was a surprise to us all. There must be more in this affair of Inglethorp's with Mrs. Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?" "Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!" "Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window. "Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about that man, Poirot. I don't like him." "He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively. "Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot." "You saw him, then?" "Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in it was just after dinner but Mr. Inglethorp insisted." "What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance." "Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!" I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point." Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself." "Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was a very ridiculous one, no doubt that she had intended to poison him and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree." "Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction, that they are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against Miss Howard's having deliberately poisoned Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Why, she was devoted to her!" I exclaimed. "Tcha! Tcha!" cried Poirot irritably. "You argue like a child. If Miss Howard were capable of poisoning the old lady, she would be quite equally capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look elsewhere. You are perfectly correct in your assumption that her vehemence against Alfred Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are quite wrong in the deduction you draw from it. I have drawn my own deductions, which I believe to be correct, but I will not speak of them at present." He paused a minute, then went on. "Now, to my way of thinking, there is one insuperable objection to Miss Howard's being the murderess." "And that is?" "That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp's death benefit Miss Howard. Now there is no murder without a motive." I reflected. "Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in her favour?" Poirot shook his head. "But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?" Poirot smiled. "That was for a reason. I did not want to mention the name of the person who was actually in my mind. Miss Howard occupied very much the same position, so I used her name instead." "Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the afternoon of her death may" But Poirot's shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped. "No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will. But I can tell you this much it was not in Miss Howard's favour." I accepted his assurance, though I did not really see how he could be so positive about the matter. "Well," I said, with a sigh, "we will acquit Miss Howard, then. It is partly your fault that I ever came to suspect her. It was what you said about her evidence at the inquest that set me off." Poirot looked puzzled. "What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?" "Don't you remember? When I cited her and John Cavendish as being above suspicion?" "Oh ah yes." He seemed a little confused, but recovered himself. "By the way, Hastings, there is something I want you to do for me." "Certainly. What is it?" "Next time you happen to be	caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?" He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy. "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance." "Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything everything!" I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything everything." Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision. "_Allons!_" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?" "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?" "If you please." John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster. "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?" "Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia." "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion. "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself have you no suspicions of anybody?"<\|quote\|>I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.</\|quote\|>"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish." "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts." "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes you'll laugh at me" "Not at all. Why should I?" "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working." "Well?" "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that a convoy coming in unexpectedly she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that." "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him." "You consider her vehemence unnatural?" "Y es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is	The Mysterious Affair At Styles
"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."	Newland Archer	hurried on with a rush.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She	don't understand." Archer reddened, and hurried on with a rush.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"Merciful heavens--a bad sign?" "She thinks it means that I	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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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	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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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	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 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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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	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 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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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	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 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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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!" 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. "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	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 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.<\|quote\|>"We had a frank talk--almost the first. She thinks my impatience a bad sign."</\|quote\|>"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	The Age Of Innocence
"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"	Isabella Thorpe	I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking	like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful	"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they	able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?" "The finest place in England worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with	should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston." "I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland. "You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe. "We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?" "The finest place in England worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?" "Yes." "Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl." "Did you indeed?" "Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too." "It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk." "And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere." Isabella corroborated	a few mornings back. "Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for me perhaps but I shall not go I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call." Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. "Make haste! Make haste!" as he threw open the door. "Put on your hat this moment there is no time to be lost we are going to Bristol. How d ye do, Mrs. Allen?" "To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment." This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give their assistance. "My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston." "I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland. "You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe. "We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?" "The finest place in England worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?" "Yes." "Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl." "Did you indeed?" "Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too." "It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk." "And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere." Isabella corroborated it: "My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now." "I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?" "Yes, yes, every hole and corner." "But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and call by and by?" "Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks." "Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?" "Just as you please, my dear." "Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go," was the general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it: "Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you go." And in two minutes they were off. Catherine s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think	to carry. I would much rather take a chair at any time." "It was such a nice-looking morning! I felt so convinced it would be dry!" "Anybody would have thought so indeed. There will be very few people in the pump-room, if it rains all the morning. I hope Mr. Allen will put on his greatcoat when he goes, but I dare say he will not, for he had rather do anything in the world than walk out in a greatcoat; I wonder he should dislike it, it must be so comfortable." The rain continued fast, though not heavy. Catherine went every five minutes to the clock, threatening on each return that, if it still kept on raining another five minutes, she would give up the matter as hopeless. The clock struck twelve, and it still rained. "You will not be able to go, my dear." "I do not quite despair yet. I shall not give it up till a quarter after twelve. This is just the time of day for it to clear up, and I do think it looks a little lighter. There, it is twenty minutes after twelve, and now I _shall_ give it up entirely. Oh! That we had such weather here as they had at Udolpho, or at least in Tuscany and the south of France! the night that poor St. Aubin died! such beautiful weather!" At half past twelve, when Catherine s anxious attention to the weather was over and she could no longer claim any merit from its amendment, the sky began voluntarily to clear. A gleam of sunshine took her quite by surprise; she looked round; the clouds were parting, and she instantly returned to the window to watch over and encourage the happy appearance. Ten minutes more made it certain that a bright afternoon would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. Allen, who had "always thought it would clear up." But whether Catherine might still expect her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Tilney to venture, must yet be a question. It was too dirty for Mrs. Allen to accompany her husband to the pump-room; he accordingly set off by himself, and Catherine had barely watched him down the street when her notice was claimed by the approach of the same two open carriages, containing the same three people that had surprised her so much a few mornings back. "Isabella, my brother, and Mr. Thorpe, I declare! They are coming for me perhaps but I shall not go I cannot go indeed, for you know Miss Tilney may still call." Mrs. Allen agreed to it. John Thorpe was soon with them, and his voice was with them yet sooner, for on the stairs he was calling out to Miss Morland to be quick. "Make haste! Make haste!" as he threw open the door. "Put on your hat this moment there is no time to be lost we are going to Bristol. How d ye do, Mrs. Allen?" "To Bristol! Is not that a great way off? But, however, I cannot go with you today, because I am engaged; I expect some friends every moment." This was of course vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Allen was called on to second him, and the two others walked in, to give their assistance. "My sweetest Catherine, is not this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston." "I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland. "You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe. "We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?" "The finest place in England worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?" "Yes." "Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl." "Did you indeed?" "Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too." "It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk." "And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere." Isabella corroborated it: "My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now." "I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?" "Yes, yes, every hole and corner." "But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and call by and by?" "Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks." "Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?" "Just as you please, my dear." "Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go," was the general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it: "Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you go." And in two minutes they were off. Catherine s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree, however unlike in kind. She could not think the Tilneys had acted quite well by her, in so readily giving up their engagement, without sending her any message of excuse. It was now but an hour later than the time fixed on for the beginning of their walk; and, in spite of what she had heard of the prodigious accumulation of dirt in the course of that hour, she could not from her own observation help thinking that they might have gone with very little inconvenience. To feel herself slighted by them was very painful. On the other hand, the delight of exploring an edifice like Udolpho, as her fancy represented Blaize Castle to be, was such a counterpoise of good as might console her for almost anything. They passed briskly down Pulteney Street, and through Laura Place, without the exchange of many words. Thorpe talked to his horse, and she meditated, by turns, on broken promises and broken arches, phaetons and false hangings, Tilneys and trap-doors. As they entered Argyle Buildings, however, she was roused by this address from her companion, "Who is that girl who looked at you so hard as she went by?" "Who? Where?" "On the right-hand pavement she must be almost out of sight now." Catherine looked round and saw Miss Tilney leaning on her brother s arm, walking slowly down the street. She saw them both looking back at her. "Stop, stop, Mr. Thorpe," she impatiently cried; "it is Miss Tilney; it is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I will get out this moment and go to them." But to what purpose did she speak? Thorpe only lashed his horse into a brisker trot; the Tilneys, who had soon ceased to look after her, were in a moment out of sight round the corner of Laura Place, and in another moment she was herself whisked into the marketplace. Still, however, and during the length of another street, she entreated him to stop. "Pray, pray stop, Mr. Thorpe. I cannot go on. I will not go on. I must go back to Miss Tilney." But Mr. Thorpe only laughed, smacked his whip, encouraged his horse, made odd noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and vexed as she was, having no power of getting away, was obliged to give up the point and submit. Her reproaches, however, were not spared. "How could you deceive me so, Mr.	this delightful? We shall have a most heavenly drive. You are to thank your brother and me for the scheme; it darted into our heads at breakfast-time, I verily believe at the same instant; and we should have been off two hours ago if it had not been for this detestable rain. But it does not signify, the nights are moonlight, and we shall do delightfully. Oh! I am in such ecstasies at the thoughts of a little country air and quiet! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We shall drive directly to Clifton and dine there; and, as soon as dinner is over, if there is time for it, go on to Kingsweston." "I doubt our being able to do so much," said Morland. "You croaking fellow!" cried Thorpe. "We shall be able to do ten times more. Kingsweston! Aye, and Blaize Castle too, and anything else we can hear of; but here is your sister says she will not go." "Blaize Castle!" cried Catherine. "What is that?" "The finest place in England worth going fifty miles at any time to see." "What, is it really a castle, an old castle?" "The oldest in the kingdom." "But is it like what one reads of?" "Exactly the very same." "But now really are there towers and long galleries?" "By dozens." "Then I should like to see it; but I cannot I cannot go."<\|quote\|>"Not go! My beloved creature, what do you mean?"</\|quote\|>"I cannot go, because" looking down as she spoke, fearful of Isabella s smile "I expect Miss Tilney and her brother to call on me to take a country walk. They promised to come at twelve, only it rained; but now, as it is so fine, I dare say they will be here soon." "Not they indeed," cried Thorpe; "for, as we turned into Broad Street, I saw them does he not drive a phaeton with bright chestnuts?" "I do not know indeed." "Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You are talking of the man you danced with last night, are not you?" "Yes." "Well, I saw him at that moment turn up the Lansdown Road, driving a smart-looking girl." "Did you indeed?" "Did upon my soul; knew him again directly, and he seemed to have got some very pretty cattle too." "It is very odd! But I suppose they thought it would be too dirty for a walk." "And well they might, for I never saw so much dirt in my life. Walk! You could no more walk than you could fly! It has not been so dirty the whole winter; it is ankle-deep everywhere." Isabella corroborated it: "My dearest Catherine, you cannot form an idea of the dirt; come, you must go; you cannot refuse going now." "I should like to see the castle; but may we go all over it? May we go up every staircase, and into every suite of rooms?" "Yes, yes, every hole and corner." "But then, if they should only be gone out for an hour till it is dryer, and call by and by?" "Make yourself easy, there is no danger of that, for I heard Tilney hallooing to a man who was just passing by on horseback, that they were going as far as Wick Rocks." "Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?" "Just as you please, my dear." "Mrs. Allen, you must persuade her to go," was the general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive to it: "Well, my dear," said she, "suppose you go." And in two minutes they were off. Catherine s feelings, as she got into the carriage, were in a very unsettled state; divided between regret for the loss of one great pleasure, and the hope of soon enjoying another, almost its equal in degree,	Northanger Abbey
said Mr. Bumble,	No speaker	his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who	his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you?	becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave	are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what	is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from	Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,' didn't they?" Mr. Bumble nodded. "And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had" "Tush! Foolery!" interposed the beadle. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do." "Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed." "Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: "juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches." "So they are," said the undertaker. "They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. "No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker. "I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face. "So do I," rejoined the undertaker. "And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for 'em." "Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath	replied, that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession of him. CHAPTER IV. OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay. Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,' didn't they?" Mr. Bumble nodded. "And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had" "Tush! Foolery!" interposed the beadle. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do." "Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed." "Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: "juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches." "So they are," said the undertaker. "They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. "No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker. "I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face. "So do I," rejoined the undertaker. "And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for 'em." "Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice: "Well; what about the boy?" "Oh!" replied the undertaker; "why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor's rates." "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble. "Well?" "Well," replied the undertaker, "I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so I think I'll take the boy myself." Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening "upon liking" a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with. When little Oliver was taken before "the gentlemen" that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith. Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand which was	and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand. "I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble," said the undertaker. "You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane. "Think so?" said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble." "So are the coffins," replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in. Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham." "Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable." "Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see he! he! he!" "Just so," said Mr. Bumble. "Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: "though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir." As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme. "By the bye,"<\|quote\|>said Mr. Bumble,</\|quote\|>"you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?" As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size. "Gadso!" said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before." "Yes, I think it rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die is the same as the porochial seal the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight." "I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,' didn't they?" Mr. Bumble nodded. "And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had" "Tush! Foolery!" interposed the beadle. "If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do." "Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed." "Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: "juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches." "So they are," said the undertaker. "They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously. "No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker. "I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face. "So do I," rejoined the undertaker. "And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for 'em." "Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer. Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat	Oliver Twist
"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."	Don Lavington	am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don?	believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you,	think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you	the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that	to leave you." "Oh, yes; I think I can walk. Anyhow I'm going to try. I say, if you hear me squeak or crack anywhere, you'll stop me, won't you?" "Of course." "Come on then, and let's get there. Oh, crumpets! What a pain." "Lean on me." "No; I'm going to lean on myself," said Jem, stoutly. "I'm pretty sure I arn't broke, Mas' Don; but feel just as if I was cracked all over like an old pot, and that's werry bad, you know, arn't it? Now then, which way is it?" "This way, Jem, to the right of the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that is, if you can walk fast?" "I can walk fast, my lad: look. But what's quarter of a hour? I got muddled enough over the bells board ship--three bells, and four bells, and the rest of it; but out here there don't seem to be no time at all. Wonder how near those fellows are as we see. I am glad I arn't broke." In about the time Don had said, they came to the path leading to the ravine, where the cave pierced the mountain side. A few minutes later they were by the hot bath spring, and directly	Don raised it tenderly, and replaced it gently. "I don't think it's broken, Jem." "Arn't it? Well, it feels like it. P'r'aps it's t'other one. Try." Don raised and replaced Jem's right leg. "That isn't broken either, Jem." "P'r'aps they're only crushed. Try my arms, my lad." These were tried in turn, and laid down. "No, Jem." "Seems stoopid," said Jem. "I thought I was broke all over. It must be my back, and when a man's back's broke, he feels it all over. Here, lend us a hand, my lad; and I'll try and walk. Soon see whether a man's back's broke." Don offered his arm, and Jem, after a good deal of grunting and groaning, rose to his feet, gave himself a wrench, and then stamped with first one leg and then with the other. "Why, I seems all right, Mas' Don," he said, eagerly. "Yes, Jem." "Think it's my ribs? I've heared say that a man don't always know when his ribs is broke." "Do you feel as if they were, Jem?" "Oh, yes; just exactly. All down one side, and up the other." "Could you manage to walk as far as the village? I don't like to leave you." "Oh, yes; I think I can walk. Anyhow I'm going to try. I say, if you hear me squeak or crack anywhere, you'll stop me, won't you?" "Of course." "Come on then, and let's get there. Oh, crumpets! What a pain." "Lean on me." "No; I'm going to lean on myself," said Jem, stoutly. "I'm pretty sure I arn't broke, Mas' Don; but feel just as if I was cracked all over like an old pot, and that's werry bad, you know, arn't it? Now then, which way is it?" "This way, Jem, to the right of the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that is, if you can walk fast?" "I can walk fast, my lad: look. But what's quarter of a hour? I got muddled enough over the bells board ship--three bells, and four bells, and the rest of it; but out here there don't seem to be no time at all. Wonder how near those fellows are as we see. I am glad I arn't broke." In about the time Don had said, they came to the path leading to the ravine, where the cave pierced the mountain side. A few minutes later they were by the hot bath spring, and directly after, to Don's great delight, they came upon Tomati. "I was coming to look for you two," he said. "You had better not go far from the _whare_. Two of the tribes have turned savage, and are talking about war." Don interrupted him, and told him what they had seen. "So soon!" he said hurriedly. "Is it bad news, then?" asked Don, anxiously. "Bad, my lads! Bad as it can be." "Then that was a war-party we saw?" "Yes; come on." He then put his hands to his mouth and uttered a wildly savage yell, whose effect was instantaneous. It was answered in all directions, and followed by a shrieking and wailing chorus from the women and children, who came trooping out of their huts, laden with household treasures, and hurrying up one particular path at the back of the village, one which neither Don nor Jem had intruded upon, from the belief that it led to some temple or place connected with the Maoris' religion. A few minutes before the men were idling about, lying on the black sand, sleeping, or eating and drinking in the most careless, indolent way. Now all were in a state of the wildest	out by the roots, that he thought it better to leap than fall, and gathering himself up, he plunged right into the second kauri pine, and went headlong down with a tremendous crash. For he had been right in his doubts. The pine was not so able to bear his weight as its fellow had been to carry Don. He caught it tightly, and the tree bent right down, carrying him nearly to the earth, where he would have done well to have let go; but he clung to it fast, and the tree sprang up again, bent once more, and broke short off, Jem falling at least twenty feet into the bushes below. "Hurt, Jem?" cried Don, forcing his way to his side. "Hurt? Now is it likely, Mas' Don? Hurt? No. I feel just like a babby that's been lifted gently down and laid on a feather cushion. That's 'bout how I feel. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Here, give's a hand. Gently, dear lad; I'm like a skin full o' broken bones. Help me out o' this tangle, and let's see how much of me's good, and how much 'll have to be throwed away. Eggs and bacon! What a state I'm in!" Don helped him as tenderly as he could out into an open space, and softly assisted him to lie down, which Jem did, groaning, and was perfectly still for a few moments flat there on his back. "Are you in much pain, Jem?" said Don, anxiously. "Horrid, lad, horrid. I think you'd better go on and warn 'em, and come and fetch me arterwards; only don't forget where I am, and not find me. Look! There's two o' them birds coming to see what's the matter." "I can't leave you, Jem. You're of more consequence to me than all the New Zealanders in the place." "Am I, Mas' Don? Come, that's kindly spoke of you. But bother that tree! Might ha' behaved as well to me as t'other did to you." "Where do you feel in pain, Jem?" "Where? It's one big solid slapping pain all over me, but it's worst where there's a big thorn stuck in my arm." "Let me see." "No; wait a bit. I don't mean to be left alone out here if I can help it. Now, Mas' Don, you lift that there left leg, and see if it's broke." Don raised it tenderly, and replaced it gently. "I don't think it's broken, Jem." "Arn't it? Well, it feels like it. P'r'aps it's t'other one. Try." Don raised and replaced Jem's right leg. "That isn't broken either, Jem." "P'r'aps they're only crushed. Try my arms, my lad." These were tried in turn, and laid down. "No, Jem." "Seems stoopid," said Jem. "I thought I was broke all over. It must be my back, and when a man's back's broke, he feels it all over. Here, lend us a hand, my lad; and I'll try and walk. Soon see whether a man's back's broke." Don offered his arm, and Jem, after a good deal of grunting and groaning, rose to his feet, gave himself a wrench, and then stamped with first one leg and then with the other. "Why, I seems all right, Mas' Don," he said, eagerly. "Yes, Jem." "Think it's my ribs? I've heared say that a man don't always know when his ribs is broke." "Do you feel as if they were, Jem?" "Oh, yes; just exactly. All down one side, and up the other." "Could you manage to walk as far as the village? I don't like to leave you." "Oh, yes; I think I can walk. Anyhow I'm going to try. I say, if you hear me squeak or crack anywhere, you'll stop me, won't you?" "Of course." "Come on then, and let's get there. Oh, crumpets! What a pain." "Lean on me." "No; I'm going to lean on myself," said Jem, stoutly. "I'm pretty sure I arn't broke, Mas' Don; but feel just as if I was cracked all over like an old pot, and that's werry bad, you know, arn't it? Now then, which way is it?" "This way, Jem, to the right of the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that is, if you can walk fast?" "I can walk fast, my lad: look. But what's quarter of a hour? I got muddled enough over the bells board ship--three bells, and four bells, and the rest of it; but out here there don't seem to be no time at all. Wonder how near those fellows are as we see. I am glad I arn't broke." In about the time Don had said, they came to the path leading to the ravine, where the cave pierced the mountain side. A few minutes later they were by the hot bath spring, and directly after, to Don's great delight, they came upon Tomati. "I was coming to look for you two," he said. "You had better not go far from the _whare_. Two of the tribes have turned savage, and are talking about war." Don interrupted him, and told him what they had seen. "So soon!" he said hurriedly. "Is it bad news, then?" asked Don, anxiously. "Bad, my lads! Bad as it can be." "Then that was a war-party we saw?" "Yes; come on." He then put his hands to his mouth and uttered a wildly savage yell, whose effect was instantaneous. It was answered in all directions, and followed by a shrieking and wailing chorus from the women and children, who came trooping out of their huts, laden with household treasures, and hurrying up one particular path at the back of the village, one which neither Don nor Jem had intruded upon, from the belief that it led to some temple or place connected with the Maoris' religion. A few minutes before the men were idling about, lying on the black sand, sleeping, or eating and drinking in the most careless, indolent way. Now all were in a state of the wildest excitement, and as Don saw the great stalwart fellows come running here and there, armed with spear and stone axe, he felt that he had misjudged them, and thought that they looked like so many grand bronze figures, suddenly come to life. Their faces and nearly naked bodies were made hideous with tattooing marks; but their skins shone and the muscles stood out, and as they all grouped together under the orders of Tomati and Ngati, both Don and Jem thought that if the party they had seen were coming on to the attack, the fighting might be desperate after all. In less time than it takes to tell, men had been sent out as scouts; and pending their return, Tomati led the way up the path, after the women and children, to where, to Don's astonishment, there was a strong blockaded enclosure, or _pah_, made by binding great stakes together at the tops, after they had been driven into the ground. There was but one entrance to the enclosure, which was on the summit of a rock with exceedingly steep sides, save where the path zigzagged to the top; and here every one was soon busy trying to strengthen the place, the spears of the men being laid against the stockade. "May as well help," said Jem, sturdily. "I'm not going to fight, but I don't mind helping them to take care of themselves." They set to and aided in every way they could, Ngati smiling approval, patting Don on the back, and then hurrying away to return with two spears, which he handed to the two young men. "My pakeha!" he said; and Jem gave an angry stamp, and was about to refuse to take the weapon, when there was a yell of excitement from all in the _pah_, for one of the scouts came running in, and as he came nearer, it could be seen that he was bleeding from a wound in the shoulder, and that he had lost his spear. As if nerved by this sight, Don and Jem seized the spears offered for their defence. "Yes, Mas' Don," said Jem; "we shall have to try and fight; seems to me as if the war's begun!" A wild shriek followed his words, and Don saw that they were but too true. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. WAR. Tomati soon showed the reason for his elevation to the	lift that there left leg, and see if it's broke." Don raised it tenderly, and replaced it gently. "I don't think it's broken, Jem." "Arn't it? Well, it feels like it. P'r'aps it's t'other one. Try." Don raised and replaced Jem's right leg. "That isn't broken either, Jem." "P'r'aps they're only crushed. Try my arms, my lad." These were tried in turn, and laid down. "No, Jem." "Seems stoopid," said Jem. "I thought I was broke all over. It must be my back, and when a man's back's broke, he feels it all over. Here, lend us a hand, my lad; and I'll try and walk. Soon see whether a man's back's broke." Don offered his arm, and Jem, after a good deal of grunting and groaning, rose to his feet, gave himself a wrench, and then stamped with first one leg and then with the other. "Why, I seems all right, Mas' Don," he said, eagerly. "Yes, Jem." "Think it's my ribs? I've heared say that a man don't always know when his ribs is broke." "Do you feel as if they were, Jem?" "Oh, yes; just exactly. All down one side, and up the other." "Could you manage to walk as far as the village? I don't like to leave you." "Oh, yes; I think I can walk. Anyhow I'm going to try. I say, if you hear me squeak or crack anywhere, you'll stop me, won't you?" "Of course." "Come on then, and let's get there. Oh, crumpets! What a pain." "Lean on me." "No; I'm going to lean on myself," said Jem, stoutly. "I'm pretty sure I arn't broke, Mas' Don; but feel just as if I was cracked all over like an old pot, and that's werry bad, you know, arn't it? Now then, which way is it?" "This way, Jem, to the right of the mountain." "Ah, I suppose you're right, Mas' Don. I say, I can walk." "Does it hurt you very much?" "Oh, yes; it hurts me horrid. But I say, Mas' Don, there arn't many chaps in Bristol as could have failed down like that without breaking theirselves, is there?" "I think it's wonderful, Jem." "That's what I think, Mas' Don, and I'm as proud of it as can be. Here, step out, sir; works is beginning to go better every minute. Tidy stiff; but, I say, Mas' Don, I don't believe I'm even cracked." "I am glad, Jem," cried Don.<\|quote\|>"I felt a little while ago as if I would rather it had been me."</\|quote\|>"Did you, though, Mas' Don? Well, that's kind of you, that it is. I do like that. Come along. Don't you be afraid. I can walk as fast as you can. Never fear! Think we shall be in time?" "I don't know, Jem. I was in such trouble about you that I had almost forgotten the people at the village." "So had I. Pain always makes me forget everything, 'speshly toothache. Why, that's the right way," he cried, as they turned the corner of a steep bluff. "Yes, and in a quarter of an hour we can be there; that is, if you can walk fast?" "I can walk fast, my lad: look. But what's quarter of a hour? I got muddled enough over the bells board ship--three bells, and four bells, and the rest of it; but out here there don't seem to be no time at all. Wonder how near those fellows are as we see. I am glad I arn't broke." In about the time Don had said, they came to the path leading to the ravine, where the cave pierced the mountain side. A few minutes later they were by the hot bath spring, and directly after, to Don's great delight, they came upon Tomati. "I was coming to look for you two," he said. "You had better not go far from the _whare_. Two of the tribes have turned savage, and are talking about war." Don interrupted him, and told him what they had seen. "So soon!" he said hurriedly. "Is it bad news, then?" asked Don, anxiously. "Bad, my lads! Bad as it can be." "Then that was a war-party we saw?" "Yes; come on." He then put his hands to his mouth and uttered a wildly savage yell, whose effect was instantaneous. It was answered in all directions, and followed by a shrieking and wailing chorus from the women and children, who came trooping out of their huts, laden with household treasures, and hurrying up one particular path at the back of the village, one which neither Don nor Jem had intruded upon, from the belief that it led to some temple or place connected with	Don Lavington
"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"	Mr. Bumble	yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I	"What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in	couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the	his lady wife. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do _you_ do here?" "I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!" Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience	Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded. "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. "These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?" With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do _you_ do here?" "I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!" Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person. What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed	to replace the carpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out of the room, without bestowing another thought on his unfinished sentence: leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the field. Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He had a decided propensity for bullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasure from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to say) a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to his character; for many official personages, who are held in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwise, and with a view of impressing the reader with a just sense of his qualifications for office. But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making a tour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws really were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be visited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded. "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. "These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?" With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do _you_ do here?" "I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!" Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person. What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery. "All in two months!" said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. "Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but everybody else's, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and now!" It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street. He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the street. The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his	nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of his own power, pleased and exalted him. He eyed his good lady with looks of great satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, that she should cry her hardest: the exercise being looked upon, by the faculty, as strongly conducive to health. "It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and softens down the temper," said Mr. Bumble. "So cry away." As he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat from a peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man might, who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door, with much ease and waggishness depicted in his whole appearance. Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because they were less troublesome than a manual assault; but, she was quite prepared to make trial of the latter mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in discovering. The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a hollow sound, immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the opposite end of the room. This preliminary proceeding laying bare his head, the expert lady, clasping him tightly round the throat with one hand, inflicted a shower of blows (dealt with singular vigour and dexterity) upon it with the other. This done, she created a little variety by scratching his face, and tearing his hair; and, having, by this time, inflicted as much punishment as she deemed necessary for the offence, she pushed him over a chair, which was luckily well situated for the purpose: and defied him to talk about his prerogative again, if he dared. "Get up!" said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. "And take yourself away from here, unless you want me to do something desperate." Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance: wondering much what something desperate might be. Picking up his hat, he looked towards the door. "Are you going?" demanded Mrs. Bumble. "Certainly, my dear, certainly," rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker motion towards the door. "I didn't intend to I'm going, my dear! You are so very violent, that really I" At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the carpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out of the room, without bestowing another thought on his unfinished sentence: leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the field. Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He had a decided propensity for bullying: derived no inconsiderable pleasure from the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to say) a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to his character; for many official personages, who are held in high respect and admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwise, and with a view of impressing the reader with a just sense of his qualifications for office. But, the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making a tour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws really were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be visited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded. "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. "These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?" With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do _you_ do here?" "I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!" Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person. What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery. "All in two months!" said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. "Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but everybody else's, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and now!" It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street. He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the street. The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his salutation. Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the stranger had been more familiar: so he drank his gin-and-water in silence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance. It so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall into company under such circumstances: that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look at the stranger: and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in some confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him. Mr. Bumble's awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable expression of the stranger's eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold. When they had encountered each other's glance several times in this way, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence. "Were you looking for me," he said, "when you peered in at the window?" "Not that I am aware of, unless you're Mr." Here Mr. Bumble stopped short; for he was curious to know the stranger's name, and thought in his impatience, he might supply the blank. "I see you were not," said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth; "or you have known my name. You don't know it. I would recommend you not to ask for it." "I meant no harm, young man," observed Mr. Bumble, majestically. "And have done none," said the stranger. Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was again broken by the stranger. "I have seen you before, I think?" said he. "You were differently dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were beadle here, once; were you not?" "I was," said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; "porochial beadle." "Just so," rejoined the other, nodding his head. "It was in that character I saw you. What are you now?" "Master of the workhouse," rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. "Master	who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish linen: when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded. "Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. "These women at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo there! What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?" With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very fierce and angry manner: which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady wife. "My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here." "Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do _you_ do here?" "I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble: glancing distractedly at a couple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the workhouse-master's humility. "_You_ thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business is it of yours?" "Why, my dear" urged Mr. Bumble submissively. "What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.<\|quote\|>"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,"</\|quote\|>submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then." "I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour in the day. Be off; come!" Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two old paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person. What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery. "All in two months!" said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. "Two months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but everybody else's, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and now!" It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, distractedly, into the street. He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the street. The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his salutation. Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough	Oliver Twist
"I shall go with you men."	Don Lavington	the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem.	young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are	right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of	only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed	a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, "and they know it. Look!" By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush. Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we	with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side. "Be careful and make every shot tell," said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don. "We shall beat them off, sir," said Don cheerily. "Yes, I hope so, my lad," said the settler calmly. "You see you are of great use." "No, sir; it's all my fault," replied Don. "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as Don returned, "look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see." "Fire!" said Don after a momentary examination. He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock's voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house. For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down. To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, "and they know it. Look!" By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush. Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless," said the officer. Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that	and defend that." Fortunately for the defenders of the place there were but three windows, and they were small, and made good loop-holes from which to fire when the enemy came on. The settlers defended the front of the house, and Don, Jem and Ngati were sent to the back, greatly to Jem's disappointment. "We sha'n't see any of the fun, Mas' Don," he whispered, and then remained silent, for a shout arose, and they recognised the voice as that of Mike Bannock. "Now then you," he shouted, "open the door, and give in quietly. If you do, you sha'n't be hurt. If you make a fight of it, no one will be left alive." "Look here!" shouted back Gordon; "I warn you all that the first man who comes a step farther may lose his life. Go on about your business before help comes and you are caught." "No help for a hundred miles, matey," said the savage-looking convict; "so give in. We want all you've got there, and what's more, we mean to have it. Will you surrender?" For answer Gordon thrust out his gun-barrel, and the convicts drew back a few yards, and conversed together before disappearing with their savage followers into the bush. "Have we scared them off?" said Gordon to one of the settlers, after ten minutes had passed without a sign. "I don't know," said the other. "I can't help thinking--" "Look out, Mas' Don!" _Bang_! _bang_! Two reports from muskets at the back of the house, where the attacking party had suddenly shown themselves, thinking it the weakest part; and after the two shots about a dozen Maoris dashed at the little window, and tried to get in, forcing their spears through to keep the defenders at a distance; and had not Ngati's spear played its part, darting swiftly about like the sting of some monster, the lithe, active fellows would, soon have forced their way in. Directly after, the fight began at the front, the firing growing hot, and not without effect, for one of the settlers went down with a musket bullet in his shoulder, and soon after Gordon stood back, holding his arm for Don to bind it up with a strip off a towel. "Only a spear prick," he said coolly, as he took aim with his gun directly after; and for about an hour the fight raged fiercely, with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side. "Be careful and make every shot tell," said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don. "We shall beat them off, sir," said Don cheerily. "Yes, I hope so, my lad," said the settler calmly. "You see you are of great use." "No, sir; it's all my fault," replied Don. "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as Don returned, "look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see." "Fire!" said Don after a momentary examination. He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock's voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house. For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down. To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, "and they know it. Look!" By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush. Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless," said the officer. Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers' places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers' wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal. After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon's, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes. The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners' guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem's reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush. "No, Jem," Don said stubbornly; "it would be cowardly, and we're cowards enough." "But s'pose they find us out? That there officer's sure to smell as we're salts." "Smell? Nonsense!" "He will, Mas' Don. I'm that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub." "Nonsense!" "But if they find out as we deserted, they'll hang us." "I don't believe it, Jem." "Well, you'll see, Mas' Don; so if they hang you, don't you blame me." "Well, Mr Gordon, we must be off," said the officer. "Thank you once more for all your hospitality." "God bless you, sir, and all your men, for saving our lives," said the settler warmly; and there was a chorus of thanks from the other settlers and their wives. "Nonsense, my dear sir; only our duty!" said the officer heartily. "And now about our prisoners. I don't know what to do about the Maoris. I don't want to shoot them, and I certainly don't want to march them with us down to where the ship lies. What would you do, Mr Gordon?" "I should give them a knife apiece, shake hands with them, and let them go." "What, to come back with the said knives, and kill you all when we're gone!" "They will not come back if you take away the scoundrels who led them on," said Don sharply. "How do you know?" said the officer good-humouredly. "Because," said Don, colouring, "I have been living a good deal with them, both with a friendly tribe and as a prisoner." "And they	with his gun directly after; and for about an hour the fight raged fiercely, with wounds given and taken, but no material advantage on either side. "Be careful and make every shot tell," said Gordon, as it was rapidly growing dark; then backing to the inner door as he reloaded, he spoke for a few seconds to Don. "We shall beat them off, sir," said Don cheerily. "Yes, I hope so, my lad," said the settler calmly. "You see you are of great use." "No, sir; it's all my fault," replied Don. "Mas' Don," whispered Jem, as Don returned, "look out of the window; mind the spears; then tell me what you see." "Fire!" said Don after a momentary examination. He was quite right. A fire had been lit in the forest at the back, and ten minutes after, as Mike Bannock's voice could be heard cheering them, the Maoris came on, hurling burning branches on to the roof of the little log-house. For a few minutes there was no result. Then there arose a yell, for the roof had caught, the resinous pine burned strongly, the smoke began to curl in between the rafters, and the women were helped down. To extinguish the flames was impossible, and would even have been as vain a task had they been outside ready with water. "How long will she last before she comes down?" said one of the settlers. "We can stop in here for a quarter, perhaps half an hour longer," said Gordon; "and then we must make a dash for your place." "Yes," said the settler, "and they know it. Look!" By the increasing light from the burning house, the savages could be seen with their white leaders preparing for a rush. Just then Don and his two companions were forced to leave the little lean-to, whose roof was burning furiously, and it was only by closing the rough door of communication that the besieged were able to remain in the big kitchen. "It won't last five minutes, my lads," said Gordon. "Be ready, women. I'll throw open the door. We men will rush out and form up. You women run down to the right and make for Smith's. We shall give them a volley to check them, and run after you." "Ready?" "Ay." "All loaded?" "Ay," came in a deep despairing growl. "Down with these boxes and tubs then. You, Don, you are young and weak; go with the women." "No," said Don;<\|quote\|>"I shall go with you men."</\|quote\|>"Brayvo, Mas' Don!" whispered Jem. "What a while they are opening that door! We shall be roasted, my lad, after all, and these wretches 'll pick our bones." The door was flung open, and the enemy uttered a yell of delight as the little party of whites ran out of the burning house. "Now, women!" cried Gordon. "No: stop!" roared Don. _Crash_! A heavy volley from the right, and the besiegers made a rush for the left. _Crash_! A heavy volley met them on the left, fired diagonally from half behind the blazing house. Then there was a cheer, echoed by a second, and two parties of blue-jackets were in among the Maoris, who fled, leaving half their number wounded and prisoners on the ground, while Don and his friends helped the women out into the open, away from the signs of bloodshed, which looked horrible in the light from the blazing house. "A little too late," said the officer in command of the detachment. "Too late to save my house, sir, but in time to save our lives," said Gordon, grasping his hand. "I wish I had been sooner; but it's rough work travelling through the bush, and we should not have come, only we heard the shouting, and saw the glow of your burning house." No time was lost in trying to extinguish the fire after a guard had been set over the prisoners, the men under the officers' orders working hard with the few buckets at command; but the place was built of inflammable pine, which flared up fiercely, and after about a quarter of an hour's effort Gordon protested against further toil. "It's of no use, sir," he said. "All labour in vain. I've not lost much, for my furniture was only home made." "I'm sorry to give up, but it is useless," said the officer. Jem crept close up to his companion. "I say, Mas' Don, I thought it was some of our chaps from the sloop at first, but they're from the _Vixen_ frigate. Think they'll find us out?" "I hope not, Jem," replied Don; "surely they will not press us again." "Let's be off into the bush till they're gone." "No," said Don; "I'm sorry I left the ship as I did. We will not run away again." Meanwhile preparations were made for bivouacking, the officer determining to rest where they were that night; and after seeing his men stored in two of the barns, and sentries placed over the prisoners in another, at one of the settlers' places, one log-house being given up to the wounded, he joined the little English gathering, where the settlers' wives, as soon as the danger was past, had prepared a comfortable meal. After an uneventful night, the morning broke cheerily over the tiny settlement, where the only trace of the attack was at Gordon's, whose rough log-house was now a heap of smoking ashes. The sailors had breakfasted well, thanks to the settlers' wives, and were now drawn up, all but the prisoners' guard, while the officer stood talking to Gordon and his neighbours with Don and Jem standing close by; for in spite of Jem's reiterated appeals, his companion refused to take to the bush. "No, Jem," Don said stubbornly; "it would be cowardly, and we're cowards enough." "But s'pose they find us out? That there officer's sure to smell as we're salts." "Smell? Nonsense!" "He will, Mas' Don. I'm that soaked with Stockholm tar that I can smell myself like a tub." "Nonsense!" "But if they find out as we deserted, they'll hang	Don Lavington
“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.”	Aunt Helen	that sort,” he replied laughingly.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“But, Helen, supposing I am	“I don’t think she is that sort,” he replied laughingly.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“But, Helen, supposing I am in earnest at last, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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,	“I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately. “Surely, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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	there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not use my influence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.” “But Sybylla _would_ succeed. I am a personal friend of the leading managers, and my influence would help her greatly.” “Yes; but what would you do with her? A young gentleman couldn’t take charge of a girl and bring her out without ruining her reputation. There would be no end of scandal, as the sister theory would only be nonsense.” “There is another way; I could easily stop scandal.” “Everard, what do you mean!” “I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately. “Surely, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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	trying to the piano came as a sweet accompaniment to my congenial task. Presently they left off singing and commenced talking. Under the same circumstances a heroine of a story would have slipped away; or, if that were impossible without discovery, she would have put her fingers in her ears, and would have been in a terrible state of agitation lest she should hear something not intended for her. I did not come there with a view to eavesdropping. It is a degradation to which I never stoop. I thought they were aware of my presence on the veranda; but it appears they were not, as they began to discuss me (wonderfully interesting subject to myself), and I stayed there, without one word of disapproval from my conscience, to listen to their conversation. “My word, didn’t gran make a to-do this morning when I proposed to train Sybylla for the stage! Do you know that girl is simply reeking with talent; I must have her trained. I will keep bringing the idea before gran until she gets used to it. I’ll work the we-should-use-the-gifts-God-has-given-us racket for all it is worth, and you might use your influence too, Helen.” “No, Everard; there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not use my influence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.” “But Sybylla _would_ succeed. I am a personal friend of the leading managers, and my influence would help her greatly.” “Yes; but what would you do with her? A young gentleman couldn’t take charge of a girl and bring her out without ruining her reputation. There would be no end of scandal, as the sister theory would only be nonsense.” “There is another way; I could easily stop scandal.” “Everard, what do you mean!” “I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately. “Surely, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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	described the fashionable balls, dinners, and garden-parties he attended. Having exhausted this subject, we fell to discussing books, and I recited snatches of poems dear to me. Everard placed his hands upon my shoulders and said: “Sybylla, do you know you are a most wonderful girl? Your figure is perfect, your style refreshing, and you have a most interesting face. It is as ever-changing as a kaleidoscope—sometimes merry, then stern, often sympathetic, and always sad when at rest. One would think you had had some sorrow in your life.” Lifting my skirt at either side, I bowed several times very low in what I called my stage bow, and called into requisition my stage smile, which displayed two rows of teeth as white and perfect as any twenty-guinea set turned out on a gold plate by a fashionable dentist. “The handsome gentleman is very kind to amuse himself at the expense of a little country bumpkin, but he would do well to ascertain if his flattery would go down before administering it next time,” I said sarcastically, and I heard him calling to me as I abruptly went off to shut myself in my room. “How dare anyone ridicule me by paying idle brainless compliments! I knew I was ugly, and did not want any one to perjure his soul pretending they thought differently. What right had I to be small? Why wasn’t I possessed of a big aquiline nose and a tall commanding figure?” Thus I sat in burning discontent and ill-humour until soothed by the scent of roses and the gleam of soft spring sunshine which streamed in through my open window. Some of the flower-beds in the garden were completely carpeted with pansy blossoms, all colours, and violets-blue and white, single and double. The scent of mignonette, jonquils, and narcissi filled the air. I revelled in rich perfumes, and these tempted me forth. My ruffled feelings gave way before the delights of the old garden. I collected a number of vases, and, filling them with water, set them on a table in the veranda near one of the drawing-room windows. I gathered lapfuls of the lovely blossoms, and commenced arranging them in the vases. Part of the old Caddagat house was built of slabs, and one of the wooden walls ran along the veranda side of the drawing-room, so the songs aunt Helen and Everard Grey were trying to the piano came as a sweet accompaniment to my congenial task. Presently they left off singing and commenced talking. Under the same circumstances a heroine of a story would have slipped away; or, if that were impossible without discovery, she would have put her fingers in her ears, and would have been in a terrible state of agitation lest she should hear something not intended for her. I did not come there with a view to eavesdropping. It is a degradation to which I never stoop. I thought they were aware of my presence on the veranda; but it appears they were not, as they began to discuss me (wonderfully interesting subject to myself), and I stayed there, without one word of disapproval from my conscience, to listen to their conversation. “My word, didn’t gran make a to-do this morning when I proposed to train Sybylla for the stage! Do you know that girl is simply reeking with talent; I must have her trained. I will keep bringing the idea before gran until she gets used to it. I’ll work the we-should-use-the-gifts-God-has-given-us racket for all it is worth, and you might use your influence too, Helen.” “No, Everard; there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not use my influence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.” “But Sybylla _would_ succeed. I am a personal friend of the leading managers, and my influence would help her greatly.” “Yes; but what would you do with her? A young gentleman couldn’t take charge of a girl and bring her out without ruining her reputation. There would be no end of scandal, as the sister theory would only be nonsense.” “There is another way; I could easily stop scandal.” “Everard, what do you mean!” “I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately. “Surely, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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. “But, Miss Sybylla, what am I to do with it?” “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	until she gets used to it. I’ll work the we-should-use-the-gifts-God-has-given-us racket for all it is worth, and you might use your influence too, Helen.” “No, Everard; there are very few who succeed on the stage. I would not use my influence, as it is a life of which I do not approve.” “But Sybylla _would_ succeed. I am a personal friend of the leading managers, and my influence would help her greatly.” “Yes; but what would you do with her? A young gentleman couldn’t take charge of a girl and bring her out without ruining her reputation. There would be no end of scandal, as the sister theory would only be nonsense.” “There is another way; I could easily stop scandal.” “Everard, what do you mean!” “I mean marriage,” he replied deliberately. “Surely, 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.<\|quote\|>“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.”</\|quote\|>“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	My Brilliant Career